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17. French, living in Paris and that's why all the post titles here will be in French. Starting taking Law classes at university on October 11th in order to become a cop, a judge, a writer and eventually start running for world presidency around the age of thirty. Planning on updating this lj five times a week with daily life monologues and attempts at writing both fanfiction and plain fiction. I’m not a poet. Never was, never will be. Currently in love with House, Spooks/MI:5, Dexter and the idea of Adam Levine singing If I Ain’t Got You live. I totally have to see that. I'm also watching both The Mentalist and Castle but on French TV so I might be a little unaware of whatever is going on in the latest season.

26 Letters

A/N: So this is this week's chapter, I hope you like it. I would also love to thank my wonderful new beta, Pandorama, (dr-anitacoffee) who kindly offered her help on this piece. However, I self-edit a lot so any mistakes you see here are mine and I apologize for those.







Immaculate Conception



Around midnight Wilson finally leaves you alone at the poker table, surrounded by three other men with expensive ties knotted around their collars and a mixed smell of cologne assaulting your nostrils. Just like in all the hotels you’ve ever been to during a medical convention, the reception room is decorated with ancient looking furniture and bright red curtains hanging over the windows, the environment so cliché that even the MGM Grand in Las Vegas would look refreshing. You decide to leave the game (much to Mike’s dismay – or maybe it was Matt, you can’t remember) and head for the bar, forgetting for a second that you can’t drink. Of course you sit next to him because really, after giving the worst speech of your career this afternoon and spending your evening being hit on by obnoxious Jewish doctors you know your mother would love, talking with House for the first time in two weeks probably won’t be that much of a problem.


You order a Virgin Mary and he, on the other hand, asks for something you really want to drink.


“You came,” you say, stating the obvious and sitting on the stool next to him. House smells like junk food and Whisky and thank God he doesn’t wear cologne.


“Open bar, couldn’t resist. I wanted to keep tabs on Wilson but I got carried away by the drunk guy over there. See? The one struggling with his crutches?”


You smile slightly. House himself sounds a little drunk but you don’t say a word about it. It’s not that much and yet you wonder how long he’s been here, how many drinks he’s had and how safe this situation is. He must have seen you staring at the brown liquid in his glass because suddenly he looks at you and tells you not to worry; apparently Wilson’s credit card is paying.


“I told him to hide it,” you object, and forget not to look surprised for a second.


He seems to sympathize, just like Cameron. “Oh Cuddles,” he tells you “I hope someday someone will see past your incompetence and discover the real you, I really do.


A smile forms on your lips but you stay silent, enjoying the opportunity to glance around the room as an outsider. House looks at you, his blue stare lingering on your body; you can feel him guessing, imagining, undressing you. When you turn around, you like that he doesn’t hide himself or pretend he was concentrating on something else, he just keeps doing it, seeing the way your tight Indian red dress rides up your thighs when you cross your legs, the way you hold your breath and bite your lip when your heart starts beating a little faster under his invasive gaze; he stops on your chest for a moment and smiles, slightly straightening his back so he can take a better look and finally ends his journey on your eyes, holding your gaze for as long as he can until biology forces him to blink. “But you do look good Cuddy,” he tells you as a conclusion of his inspection and you’re not quite sure how to take it. A lot of people said that tonight but somehow he’s the only one you really believe.


Eventually, your orders arrive: a simple refill of whatever he’s been drinking for the past hour for him and a bright red pseudo-cocktail for you. Before you can stop him he takes your glass in his right hand and swallows a bit of tomato juice and of course spits it right back, ruining your seven-dollars beverage. Surprisingly though, you’re not even the one to complain. “What the hell is that?” he asks and washes his mouth with a swig of Whiskey.


“Virgin Mary. Like a Bloody Mary without the Vodka”


“No alcohol, huh?”


“The procedure is scheduled as soon as I get back, I’m trying not to spoil my chances”


“And then nine long months right?”


You smile.


“Well,” he tells you and downs the rest of his Jack Daniel’s, “don’t worry, I’ll drink for you.” And it sounds as if he thinks you need to cope, when actually you might finally get what you’ve always dreamed of. You wonder if you will ever be able to just understand each other instead of connecting through hurtful heartbeats every once in a while.


A few seconds pass by during which you both engage in a contest trying to fake contentment as best as you can and for now; you think you’re winning. If your brain had been functioning well enough tonight, you might have taken this as a signal telling you it was time to go. Instead, you decide to stay here and push back, and forget that’s never a good idea with House; or whoever else doesn’t have anything to lose in the battle.


You try to say something smart but he cuts you halfway anyway, “do you even know him?”


“He’s got great genes.”


“And does he like Mozart?”


“He likes the Beatles.”


The one time you tell the truth, a cold rush of wind separates you.


“Of course,” he says, “He’s probably also losing his hair,”


 “Yeah, because you clearly aren’t.”


You’ve learned sarcasm that is the lowest kind of wit but it’s always better than nothing, isn’t it?  


As you look up, you realize how strange it is that he enjoys fighting as much as you do, something you didn’t even know about yourself before you met him. With the constant bluffing, it feels like you’ve left one poker table for another. Everything he does is a game, pushing the chess pieces with his long fingers until the queen finally falls. In college you hated him for months because he thought he was so much better than anyone else, including you, and because he was right. You grew up and learned how to hold your tongue and became a real chameleon, charming and seducing your way to get wherever you wanted. How come he doesn’t understand it? You wondered during your endocrinology classes. Why does he always spoil his chances by telling people the blatant truth? You tried to understand. It was not altruism and yet it had never done him any good. Was he just getting in trouble for the sake of it? You never could figure it all out because that’s when he left you. And somehow, he contributed to your training; he helped you wash the guilt off your face. In high school you had always felt bad for being able to cheat and pretend but House trained you to become what he hated the most, a brilliantly charming administrator. A person who keeps the mask on as long as he does.


But because of that, you could never hide the guilt from him.


“Look House, I know what you think about this but it’s my decision,” and you shouldn’t have to justify yourself, really, and he doesn’t have the right to look at you the way he does.


“It shouldn’t be.” He cuts you. “Having a child is not something you’re supposed to do on your own. You want true unconditional love? It should come out of something else than sterilized medical devices,”


Your eyes snap up. “It should come out of sex you mean?”


“Some kind of human connection, yes.”


Pushing your Virgin Mary aside, you cross your arms over the counter and sigh. This is exactly the kind of conversation you wanted to avoid tonight; you can already hear your mother saying you asked for it your whole life, with all your despicable friends and unhealthy work habits. “You’re drunk, House.”


“Why? Because I’m being romantic?”


“Because you’re being naïve,” you breathe, “And that’s not like you.”


“Right, you should ask Stacy sometime, I can even buy flowers.”


You hold onto his gaze or to the memories you see behind it but it doesn’t feel like your place to tell. Your tongue slips at the end of your sentence and you’re not sure if it really is unconscious or just another personal screw up of yours. “Yeah well, a kid, romance, the white picket fence, I can’t have it all, Greg.”


“You’re beautiful Lisa,” he mocks – or insists, you’re not sure, “You can get anything and anyone you want. No need to pick a stranger you don’t know.”


You watch him swallow his new drink, still unable to sip yours. The moment is awkward for some reason but you rationalize: maybe you’ve imagined everything. “Hopefully,” you say, “I’ll get a child.”


“If that’s really what you’re after.”


You stop tapping your fingers against your glass and prevent yourself from making a fist. You’re being so unfair, House, you have no right to be judgmental, you want to snap back, but your lips twitch and you stay silent. You understand what it’s all about now: cowardice. Life is so much easier when you can say and do whatever you think is right and yet pretend you’re so much better than anyone else. Everyone thinks bravery is all about speaking the truth. Well maybe at least that’s what he deserves. “I didn’t want anyone, House.”


“But you needed someone so you’re telling me you didn’t have a choice?”


You decide to look down in silence out of habit, because that’s what you’ve always done ever since your ninth grade teacher told you there was no need to answer a rhetorical question. Instead you concentrate on your breathing, your obvious strengths and weaknesses. “Do you regret it?” He suddenly asks and instantly clarifies, “Not asking the one you liked I mean?”


Somehow, you wish there was some kind of dramatic gesture you could use to make your point more valid in is eyes and finish this discussion the way you want to end it, like it deserves to be, with a raise of some kind, one last poker chip thrown on the red table. The problem is that you can’t down your drink (and again that’s because of him) so you just hop off the stool with all the dignity you still have and remain standing there between the bar stools, staring in his pupils. You hope he sees the honesty behind yours and you decide that for once tonight you’re tired of playing.


“Of course I do” you simply say and let your lips meet the corner of his mouth. Just like when you got out of his office a month ago, you realize that the problem with truth is that it doesn’t end the game, either.





A/N: So, what do you think? Review and tell me!

26 Letters

A/N:  Hey guys, I posted this on ff.net a week ago and actually comepletly forgot to post it here too so there you go. Hope you like this.







A teasing whisper. Quiet, standing right behind her, your hot breath invading her personal space. She catches your reflection in the bathroom mirror and your voice is low, rough; it makes her vulnerable. You know it. And use it. She can feel your hands slowly making their way up her ribcage, from her hips to her sides, up until you start pulling her shirt out of her high-wasted skirt. It’s so easy it should be illegal. A shame Tritter missed that.


Instead of your obnoxious stalker, she’s the one who grabs your hand as she turns around, preventing you from going too far.


Handcuffs could work too, couldn’t they?


“House, I’m already late. I really have to -” you steal a kiss from her pulpy red lips each time she tries to say one more word. You do like the sound of her voice… But when she cries out your name, it’s even better. “Go - to - work.”


She pushes you away gently with her manicured fingernails and walks back to her room, lifting her purse up on her bed, double-checking just in case she’s forgotten something (actually it’s more like the fifth time she looks inside that thing but your mouth stays shut. You’re in the mood for sweet morning sex, not angry banter).


“You’re supposed to be at work at 9 so I guess you’ll actually check in the clinic at about 11…” She looks at you and you nod, only half-listening.


“You look like a hooker,” you say, and of course, nothing happens. She grabs an elastic band from her nightstand drawer and fastens her hair up, not noticing that now, you usually only go so far as ‘dressed like a hooker’.


She just glares at you nonetheless, because you’re always up to something. “And that is a problem to you because?”


Good point there. You smile that annoying arrogant self-assured grin that usually drives her crazy but she’s already walking down the corridor and you curse under your breath because she can’t admire it. “Cuddy” you just call her and she spontaneously turns around. You limp in her direction, heading towards the front door. You grab her scarf from the coat rack and politely hand it to her (more like ‘innocently’ actually; you doubt there’s anything polite about this). “You might want to wear that”


Her eyebrows raise because the material just doesn't fit her outfit at all but she probably decides it’s sweet, how much you worry over her well-being. “It’s not that cold” she reassures you with a pat on your shoulder and takes a step further.


“Seriously” you say, urging your body to stand between her and the door “Or you should at least put your hair down”.


Strangely enough, she doesn’t really seem to like the self-satisfied look on your face anymore. It was sweet two minutes ago, now it’s scary. Memories pass before her eyes as soon as her heart starts pounding in her chest. You see everything. She follows your gaze and finally sees it, below her ear, on the right, next to her throbbing carotid. You try to open your mouth and find a clever thing to say but suddenly, telling her that you own her now and have the right to mark your territory along the way does not seem appropriate anymore. She eyes you intently as you shifts slightly, wondering how pissed she exactly is.


“You –” Cuddy gasps and pokes her long finger at your chest.


“The hickey, I know, my bad. And before you ask, I’m not sorry. Honestly I thought it’d have vanished by today, that’s why I didn’t tell you”


There, right there. She bits down her lower lip and now you know she’s pissed. Really pissed. You can see it in the way her eyebrows frown, the way her face tenses and the way she glares daggers at your boyish (or ‘Wilson-ish’ maybe - if you’re at such a desperate loss of appropriate adjectives) smile.


“Makes you hotter.” You finally declare as a matter of fact. “And you should feel lucky I told you.”


Nothing seems to make it better. Her mouth is wide open and clearly not from arousal. Sucking her flesh in the heat of the moment was so much funnier than dealing with the consequences. It’s weird how two minutes ago you still thought you could get laid.


“You’re telling me I had this on my neck all week-end?”


Disbelief. Your mouth doesn’t open and hers doesn’t close.


“When I went to the park with Rachel? When I went shopping?”


A beat.


An unbelievably long and pensive beat. Then, she sighs.


“No wonder why my Mom thinks I’m a slut.”


Okay now, that’s strange. She doesn’t sound pleased but she doesn’t sound disappointed either. You wait for her to forgive you, to see the love behind her anger. After all, it’s cute isn’t it? She quickly grabs the scarf from your hands, pulls it over her neck without adding a word. You try closing the gap between the both of you but she turns around. Apparently, asking for a kiss is just a little too much for her to handle right now.


You try to ignore the little voice inside your head telling you revenge will come.


She throws one last glance at her neck and suddenly a mischievous smile forms on her lips. Pushing you slightly until your back hits the hallway wall, she brushes her firm body against yours, gently dropping a kiss on the corner of your mouth.


Well, that’s a radical change in behavior but who are you to complain? Really?


Her right hand grazes your cheek, lightly scratched by your stubble; it feels like it’s all starting over again. Desire burns inside you, heartbeat quickly speeding up. You’re glad that she finally sees the hickey for what it is, a cute little love letter, a reminder of what’s behind your relationship and…


Okay, you have to admit doing it was just… Passionately hot. Watching her walk around with that thing on her neck for forty-eight gave you chills running up you spine all the time. And don’t even talk about the thrill you got out of watching her applying her make up on and be completely oblivious. Love makes people blind, doesn’t it?


You stop thinking when her sweet pink lips slowly descend over your neck (or rather your heart suddenly stops sending blood towards your brain and prefers a further down destination instead – not that you mind); her hands caressing both your biceps on the way and moving towards your chest, fingers running under the thin fabric of your shirt. You swallow hard, expecting your pajama pants to start feeling incredibly tight in a second or two. Her nails play with your waistline and you realize there’s never been any reason for you to believe you were in control. Acting on impulse, your lips find shelter in the crook of her neck and kiss every bit of skin they can find there.


You think it’s really, really (really) unfortunate when she pushes you away again, even if it’s with a smile. “House,” she mutters grabbing the door handle with one hand and using the other to wrap the scarf around her neck. “See you at nine.”


You close your eyes. The door opens and closes. Revenge sucks. Cold shower calls.


Crap. Now you’re sorry.


Chapter 9: Immaculate Conception

26 Letters

I promised a new chapter soon, didn't I? Well here it is, hope you like it. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far. This OS is kinda bittersweet but next one will definitely be lighter. The writing is a little messy on purpose as I tried to stick with the confusion the title suggests.

Galimatias : n. Nonsense; gibberish; confused and unmeaning talk; confused mixture.


Walking around the hospital is like tracing the borders of your territory. You enjoy the ownership, the control. That is, of course, until you pass by his conference room one morning and find an empty and chaotic office before you. At that point, you still can't sort out your feelings. Confusion, fear, helplessness? No idea.

All you can see is the deep vermilion blood spread all over the grey carpet.

He said he wanted Ketamine.

You have a quick call to make. These are your grounds, your hospital, your incompetent security staff. Everything here belongs to you. House is paid with your money. And yet the decision you have to make is jeopardizing his life. Again.

You bang your head against the wall because of him.

Logic leaves you somewhere between the ER and the observation room. You feel bad, frustrated, everything gets so mixed up in your head that you can't comprehend, analyze, dissect; you can't pause. Usually, he says black and you say white and he's the one telling you in which direction you should be heading.

Second bullet is out. Stitching.

"Hey, glad to see you" he says groggily when he finally wakes up, "last time, Cameron was there. You're hotter."

You raise your eyebrows. Cameron? You're confused; you haven't seen her around lately. At least he knows who you are; the Ketamine doesn't seem to have screwed him up as much as you predicted. You check his pupils, his heartbeat and let your hand rest on his arm.

"How long have I been out?" He tries to sit up but you force him down on your hospital bed.

"Almost three days. Stop talking, you should rest."

And you should maybe finally head home for a shower. Something tells you that after staying up for seventy-two hours straight, you might also need some sleep.

You heal, you forget, you make amends.

Two days later, he looks even better.

"You did it, didn't you?"


"The Ketamine. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't want to risk a placebo effect. How's your leg?" You try not to be overly enthusiastic but if he managed to get all the way down here to your office, there might be hope that everything did work out fine.

"Pain free." He says. And watches you smile.

He loves your smile.



Chapter 8: Hickey


26 Letters


You really fucked it up this time, big time, your fist almost hitting the table just inches away from Rachel. You can still hear Cuddy lecturing her about not being rude to people. You wonder how rude she thought that was. It's not like it's the kid's fault anyway; you can't really blame her for anything that happened. It was a legitimate and logical question. She saw something that didn't fit and she asked you about it. That's just it.

"What is this?" She wondered, her eyes wide, focused on the old circular mark on your arm.

Her voice was so sweet, so innocent, so pure; it almost touched you. She seemed as curious as you used to be, not noticing (or deciding she didn't mind) the obvious look of discomfort building on her mother's face. "It's a scar," you simply told her.

"Like when you fall and you get hurt?"


"Like your leg?"


"Then what happened?"

"Not your business."

"Please tell me," she begged, turning to face her mother "Mommy you know?"

Cuddy licked her lips and bit the inside of her mouth; thinking back, she couldn't even look at you. Suddenly, it was like your father was there again, staring at you with that profound look of disgust on his face. "Rachel I think it's time to go to bed now." She warned, her voice shaking, unsure, waiting for you to tell her it was alright, because well, Rachel was just a kid right? She couldn't possibly know not to ask about –

"What happened?"

"She's asleep." Cuddy mutters as she walks back into the living room, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. "House," she mutters, "you alright? You're still clenching your fists."

You look down, take a deep breath but forget to calm down and exhale. Even now, it feels like you're always searching for something, a flaw in her mask that would allow you to get angry and bang the front door on your way out. "So what? You're just going to pretend you're not curious? I'm really disappointed Cuddy. The one opportunity you have of humiliating me you –"

"I'm not trying to humiliate you."

"Yeah sure. Hell it's just like for the Vicodin and everything else, gosh you're just that tolerant, aren't you?"

Amazingly, she doesn't yell back. Instead, she pauses and walks around the sofa.

"I'm not pissed," she tells you.

Your finger points your arm; the scar is circular but barely even visible, just a little bit of harmless burnt skin. "So you do know where that came from, right?"

"Yeah. When your Dad died, I got curious and went to Wilson."

You clench your teeth tight as you try to stop the anger from consummating you. She tiptoes to the opposite end of the couch, burying her face in her hands. "It's not his fault House. He got drunk and I took advantage of it."

Right, you think, still. It's funny how it sounds like she's confessing to something else. You laugh it off loudly and fake the shock, sarcasm reflecting in your tone "Oh – My – God, I can't believe it! So you slept with Wilson too! I just knew you also hired him because of a one-night-stand! I knew it!"

But that's certainly not enough to wash off the awkwardness that transpires through her living room, her walls and her carpeted floor.

"I'm sorry House but please don't deflect, not now, okay? Just -"

"Then damn it Cuddy stop feeling so damn guilty and apologizing for everything. If this is anyone's fault it's mine. I messed up; my father caught me, end of story."

And there it goes. You can see the hurt in her face, the way the words cut right through her like a knife. You can't really know where that comes from though, anger or pity.

"So you still think what he did was your fault?" You fall silent and watch your feet as if they're going to just walk out without your consent. "Is that why you're so uncomfortable around Rachel? Are you scared of -?"

She can't even seem to finish voicing her thought out loud; the train left rolling on its own waiting for you to catch up and say something appropriate. Instead you just smile from the corners of your mouth because of course, who could? Who could find the last piece of the puzzle? You decide to stick to what you know. Habits. Science. Certitudes. Statistics. "Burning her with a cigarette? Me? No. But there's a pattern you can't ignore, don't you think? What is it? 40? 30% of neglected children 'continuing the horrible cycle of abuse'?" You quote the frequent reports regularly published on the media. 'If you suspect a child is abused please call …' You know she probably knows all the numbers by heart anyway, ever since she started reading all those books about child psychology back at the time when she was searching for a sperm donor.

"You're not usually one to care about the numbers, House."

"Well," you say, "I wouldn't want that near my kid either."

She looks puzzled for a second. "I do trust you"

"Well then you're crazy and irrational Cuddy. I mean really, why would any of us care about that since we're living in such a bliss? It's not like I'm a jackass or anything." Your voice is dry and you try to hide the hurt behind it. "You know what? It's late, it looks like we won't be having sex tonight after all so I'll just … get going."

The anger boiling in your veins makes you rise too quickly and your leg stops following your brain. Cuddy catches you before you fall back on the sofa and you realize how humiliating this is. You're not even able to run away whenever you feel like it. She sits on your right and lays a hand on your leg, stroking gently through your thick jeans. You shift your thigh slightly, getting out of her reach.

Your gaze travels around the room from the muted TV to the dining table all the way to the kitchen and an eternity goes by before you dare thinking of speaking again. It feels like being trapped, her eyes begging you to open up before suddenly, she kisses you. Hard and passionate on your lips, hands tangled in your hair and travelling all over your body. She stops to breathe and you watch her, her hungry silver stare and the thin layer of water forming on her eyes. You kiss her lips again. "I'm not going to talk to you, you know that right?"


"Then why?" Did you kiss me? Did you make a scene? Did you tried to-

"I didn't want you to go. I still don't want you to go." Your jaw drops and she takes advantage of it, sliding her tongue inside your mouth. "You don't want to talk about that now, you may never do. It's not like when I ask you for an apology and I know you'll come around sometime" she mutters as her kisses go down your throat. "I'm not strong enough to risk losing you."

"I snuck out of the base once when he was stationed in Egypt and met up with a kid I knew who was selling cigarettes."

It's freezing outside Cuddy's porch tonight and you suddenly realize you haven't spoken to each other in more than a week (except from the few moans you exchanged in the janitor's closet of course). It's like you're back to square one, nothing but the freaking sex. She comes out of her car slowly, her petite frame shivering in the cold while you shake the snow off your shoes. You let out a brief breath and smirk at the stupidity of it all. It's so childish, so incredibly vain to open-up and share that kind of story with her. She probably doesn't even want to hear it anyway. And she won't understand. She won't get it right. "I was just being a twelve year old moron, you know? And well, I guess you can imagine what happened next, right?"

She sighs, probably wondering how to put it. You watch her get closer, walking next to you and up the stairs. She pulls her keys out of her purse. "He caught you?"

"Yeah. Asked me to toss it on the floor and I puffed into his face so he put it out on my arm. Maybe it was just the way you were supposed to do it in the army, I don't know." You swallow hard and notice how beautiful the snow looks as it falls on her coat. "I mean I was a tough kid so..." You start and only then she lets a quiet chuckle escape her pink lips. The lock clicks open and she steps in, turns around and places her hands on each side of the doorframe.

"Don't worry, I don't want to come in," you say, "I just wanted you to know that… I know it's going to be tough but" take a deep breath House, "I think we both know this stopped being just about the sex the day I told you I loved you."

What's amazing about Lisa Cuddy is that she never ceases to surprise you. She's this persistent Chinese puzzle piece that just can't fit anywhere. She smiles and tells you "I don't believe you" at the same time. She bursts out laughing when you wonder what the hell is going on.

Loud, offensive, aggressive, like the mean guys in Rachel's fairytales. She forces you to look at her eyes for a moment before she captures your lips between hers. Again, you stop breathing. Because you've had sex with so many hookers before that kissing actually became almost as intimate and breathtaking as sex for you. "House," she closes the door behind you "You do want to come in".

Later, when her warm body will be curled up against yours under the covers of her bed and neither of you will have spoken a word after you left the living room (moans and labored breaths sometimes also seem to be enough for the both of you to survive), she will tell you she loves you and doesn't think you're like him. Again, she'll tell you she trusts you. And most importantly she'll tell you she's not her. She is not one to put her head in the sand and ignore whatever is going on. She's a fighter and she will always fight for you if she has to. Not only to protect Rachel but also because she won't ever let you self-destroy without doing anything.

Chapter 7: Galimatias

26 Letters


"Don't leave me Lisa, I'm begging you. I swear I'll make you a superstar. I'll give you everything you deserve, happiness and stability and power and diamond rings. I'll be there for you, I'll offer you all the things he doesn't have, and I understand you may still need that. I'll forget about everything, all your mistakes and your faults, your silent confessions and his admission on my couch.

We could be happy, Lisa. Please just change your mind or at least let our discussion wait until the sunrise. Please don't make me go. I'll sleep on the ground if you want me to, cook your pancakes tomorrow and drive you to work at five. You know I don't make promises I can't keep. I've never lied, never cheated, never stole any single thing from you but I could start if you wanted me to. I'll be whoever you need me to be. I'll be a bad boy, I'll stop shaving, I'll drive you crazy and dig a hole in my leg if you promise to stay. God please Lisa don't do that to me, don't leave me.

Let me at least touch you just one last time. Let me guilt you into staying or just show you again why you've picked up the wrong guy. Are you going to be able to take him to your sister's? Will you dare presenting him to your Mom? I really thought you had chosen me over him. I really believed that you'd be the one I'd be facing while saying 'I do'. He doesn't deserve you Lisa, please let me see that spark form in your eyes all over again.

Oh God please turn around, please don't go to him, and don't turn your back on me. Don't give me that look again; don't throw my ring up in the air! I'm kneeling in front of you again Lisa Cuddy, don't you dare humiliating me like that! Please just tell me your heart still belongs to me."

You see the pain and the despair in his eyes but the words will never make it to your mouth. You lied the first time you told him that, your heart always belonged to someone else.

Chapter 6 : Family

26 Letters


Denial. Denial associates with Lisa Cuddy, lies and "I don't love yous" shouted at each other more times than you can remember.

Anger. It took you a year to stop pretending you didn't care and when you finally got there, you didn't really like the result. Being in denial at least wasn't hurting anyone else and Hannah wasn't the collateral victim of your brokenness. You hate Cuddy for not understanding your words, you despise her for thinking the whole world revolves around her. You can't amputate because there's no way you can have been wrong ten years ago.

Bargaining. You even tried to ask her for a little more time, just a little more so you could figure out how to get Hannah out in one piece. But she said no again and again and again. She doesn't only ignore your feelings; she also discards your medical judgment. Next thing you know, tomorrow, she'll probably fire you.

Depression. And she'll be right because you don't have anything left, anything left to fight for. Wilson's moving on, she's moving on and there's nothing you can do to prevent that.

Acceptance. So you take the one decision that might change your life. She won't keep her leg and you will lose your pride but there's just no way she's walking out of here alive. And waiting is just another name for that famous third option you can't stand.

So you go down the tiny tunnel one last time, bits and pieces of dirty concrete scraping your knees and elbows in the process. You know the way by heart and your leg throbs in pain every time you go just an inch further but if there's a slight chance that you can still save Cuddy performing the amputation, you'll take it.

Chapter 5 : Engagement


26 Letters


"You sure you wanna do this?"

"What? Getting cold feet?"

He steps out of his rumpled jeans and his shirt soon follows them on the floor, proving you how wrong you were about everything. He's always right, even in bed, and you like it. "Nah, just checking. You know I was serious about sending the tape to the whole hospital, right?"

And he was the one who didn't want to go public four weeks ago. You smile and tighten your grip around his shoulders; he's already so high on lust that the fall is going to hurt. "Yeah but you won't," you quickly roll over and settle above him. He seems pleasantly surprised for a few seconds before you bother explaining it all.

"You know," you utter and see him roll his eyes at the camera behind you, "It won't look so good for you if I'm on top".

You watch him trying to find some kind of acceptable wise-ass comeback but you silence him with a kiss that you know will take his breath away. "You talk way too much, Dr. House"

"Well those pornos we were talking about are not exactly what you could call silent but if you want I can – Oh!" He gasps loudly as your lips begin their journey south, slow and painful. You feel him tense under your body and can hear his heart pounding in his chest. You love him even more like that; when his breathing is so labored he can't even seem to catch his own breath, appearing somewhat vulnerable to you and only you. The intimacy is something you worship every day; it's the reason why you know that what you have is more than just sex. He shows you he loves you in his own way, with hickeys on your neck and his hands on your hips. He bursts in your office barking about how funny you still make him feel, no matter the number of times he's seen you naked in the past month.

The next time you raise your eyes, you notice his mouth is wide open, agape. He's waiting, his fists tight and strong in your hair. If he's talking too much, maybe you're also thinking too much. A smile forms on your lips as you let your tongue brush against the thin line of his waist band, teasing. He's obviously struggling "I wanted our movie to look authentitish -"

You catch the flash in his eyes, like fireworks on the fourth of July. There's always that moment, that one crack when he finally takes a deep breath and surrenders. As you nip, suck and kiss, you also make him stutter. And you never lose your purpose. "'Authentiti' what?"

"Oh stop it!" He shouts and what makes him angry seems to make you smile. His eyes are begging. "Keep on doing that and I might consider changing the movie's cast."

The cast? You wonder if that includes him too. Because judging by the way his head is thrown backwards on the mattress, eyes closed and a smug grin plastered all over his face, he's not going to survive for so long. You eye him intently and finally decide to show him what other great things you can do with your mouth. You can't leave him in that much misery.

Chapter 4 : Denial


26 Letters


You've always wondered why you kept hanging out near that damn pond with the band. Gosh, you gasp, there's a reason why the cops never caught you smoking here: the annoying insects, the dirty clothes, the heavy mud, the sickening feeling and the stinky smell.

"You know what man? I'm done!" That's Andrew, the rebellious guitarist who insisted on coming with you. You never quite bothered figuring him out, thinking he wasn't such an interesting puzzle to solve but now, you understand why it could have been useful. You eye him suspiciously as he gets out of the cold water and sits on the ground, his hands held high in surrender. "There is just no way I'm doing all this for a girl and her fucking hair clip!" You stand still for a couple of seconds before you burry your hands in the dirt once again, scanning the bog for a needle in a haystack.

"Please just give up man, you lost it, never gonna find it. It's rained all night, it's cold and you have to meet with the Dean in an hour! How the hell do you think I'm going to explain that?"

Actually, the Dean has already called you, but that's irrelevant to your point. Andrew might be trying to be nice; he might also just be ambitious. Perhaps he wants you to make him the lead singer of the band once you're gone. Thing is, you don't give a damn. "I never asked you anything. Not my fault if you can't stop yourself from helping people."

An eternity and fifteen minutes later, you see him close his eyes as realization (or sobriety) hits him. "Greg, how did her hair clip end up in your pocket in the first place?"

Well, that would require a piece of information you're not willing to share with Andrew at the moment, involving details on you and Lisa's personal life. She's stunning, beautiful, smart and reliable. And you've just spent half an hour going through some dirty thick brown mud to find her hair clip because you already know that's the only thing you'll get to keep from her for a very, very long time.

Chapter 3 : Cast


26 Letters

Disclaimer: Not mine, dont sue.
Warnings: The fic is rated T mainly for language. I will not (unfortunately ^^) write smut in this fic but there will be some highly T-rated scenes so if you don't like that, I suggest you stop reading here ;).
A/N: This is a little collection of Huddy drabbles and one-shots. There will be 26 of those, each themed with a letter in the alphabet.

Please review. Feedback is like a delicious candy that you can taste again whenever you feel depressed and in desperate need of some comfort.

And just so people don't get confused, the fic is written in a second person POV switching from Cuddy's POV to House's.

Also, lastly, I'm French and un-betaed so any mistakes are mine. I'm currently searching for a beta so if anyone wants to help, just ask..



"Damn it Cuddy! Don't you want to make Rachel proud by doing what's right?"

"House don't go there, don't use her to - "

"Oh, so what? You can show off in your little low-cut tops and tight skirts to get extra money for the hospital but I can't even use your daughter to convince you of doing what I -"

You catch a glimpse of him waiting at the arrivals gate as soon as your feet hit the ground, his chin rested awkwardly against his wooden cane as his deep blue eyes keep staring into the emptiness. You think about going the other way but his glare freezes you first, forcing you to remain motionless until he limps towards you and ends up with his torso just inches away from your breasts. You're at a loss of words since that last argument you had before you headed for the airport a week ago and you know he hasn't even tried to call you once since. You just had to cry your heart out in an expensive hotel room, your bath filled with pink bubbles as you listened to Mariah Carey on your BlackBerry thinking it had all come to an end when you heard the sound of your hand slapping his stubbled cheek.

"I thought about calling the 'help for battered men' number, you know? But I just couldn't bring myself to file the complaint." He tells you bluntly and lets the one dream you've had about him apologizing crash on the white linoleum floor next to the old remains of some spilled Starbucks coffee. "I couldn't help it. I just love the way you lie."

Right, you sigh, Eminem reference. He's always been like that, walking out on you during the biggest fights with a juicy comeback and a shrug of his broad shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he mutters under his breath after a moment and you stare at him inquisitively, scrutinizing his gaze for an answer you'll probably never get. Is he lying to your face? Is he pretending this never happened? You can't trust anything he says but maybe if you try, one day you'll be able to believe in what his actions tell you. Tonight he's here, standing before you, and even though there's a split second when you think you should just move on and forget all about him, you realize that this - this very moment you share here and now - It's all that matters. So your tears end up melting in his mouth once again right before any other thoughts dare to reach your brain. Somehow, you manage to give him an umpteenth second chance.

Chapter 2 : Bog