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Chapter Text

Cuddy sat with her feet wrapped beside her, peep-toe heels kicked off onto the floor, staring out her office window at the last hours of golden sunlight that crossed the grounds outside Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. There were two cups of tea on the table in front of her, one she had stopped sipping almost an hour ago when she realized it no longer held any warmth, and one almost untouched, sitting only inches away.

The now cooled liquid shown amber in the growing evening hour, the two mugs daring her to see the obvious metaphor that had been presented to her that afternoon. One cup full and the other half full, or half empty, depending on your point of view. It wasn't really up to her, whether or not to fill the other cup. That, she knew, was a necessity the hospital could not do without. But from her own point of view, Lisa Cuddy was having trouble finding a palatable way to fill the other teacup without making an even larger mess.

She turned as she heard a polite rap on her door, Wilson announcing his presence before taking a seat at the other end of the sofa. "You wanted to see me before I left?"

She smiled warmly; glad to see a friendly face. "Yes." She set her legs firmly on the floor and turned to face him. "I need your help."

Wilson's lips pursed before letting out a helpless sigh. "What did House do now?" he asked, awaiting the laundry list of mischievous and no doubt expensive ways in which his best friend had managed to put his mark on the hospital during the last few days. House required constant damage control.

"His job," her voice was thick with irony.

Wilson just stared. "Sorry?"

Cuddy leaned forward, face in her hands. She shook her head. "How many times have I begged, pleaded, fought with House just trying to get him to do his damn job? And the one time he actually listens, you know what happens?"

He was staring into Cuddy's desperate eyes, not sure how or even if to answer.

"The sky comes crashing down!" Cuddy finished and tried a deep cleansing breath.

Wilson laughed nervously. "Okay, Chicken Little," he said with all the love that his confusion allowed. "Just tell me one thing. Are we being sued?"

"No, but we are being used," she sighed.

"And that's worse than being sued?" Wilson continued to pry information from her.

"No. Yes," Cuddy quickly reconsidered. "Both. For the hospital it's great, if I can find a way to pull it off. If I fail it will be a disaster. And if I succeed it will be a personal disaster, I'm sure. Which is why," she told him, "I need your help."

"Right," he replied, clueless.

Cuddy looked at Wilson, his brow furrowed, his arms and legs crossed. The poor man had no idea what she was talking about, yet there he sat, ready and willing to help. "Sorry about the dramatic rant," she instantly apologized. "It's really my problem."

"No, no!" Wilson assured her. "Just tell me exactly what House did."

Cuddy bit her lower lip, straining with the words. "He managed to pull off the largest financial windfall this hospital has seen in years." Her voice went up as she neared the end of the sentence, as if she were still questioning the idea entirely.

Wilson sat stunned for a moment before finding his voice. "This is a problem. Either he's blackmailing a patient or he's had a sudden and radical personality shift."

"If only," she mused. Then, pointing to the two teacups in front of them said, "I had a very unusual visit this afternoon from one of House's former patients; one wishing to express his gratitude."

"Because House did his job?" Wilson confirmed.

Cuddy nodded. "Yes. And the timing couldn't be worse."

"Well, House has always been known for his great timing," he said sarcastically, risking a sly grin at Cuddy.

She took it as he intended, with sympathy. "Tell me about it."

"Who is this former patient and just how grateful is he?" Wilson asked.

"It's Thomas Hughes," she gave the name, "and the donation is enough to keep the clinic running for the next year, no other monies needed."

A whistle blew past Wilson's lips as he calculated a rough number in his head. Then pausing, he searched his memory for the name of the benefactor. "Hughes? As in owns half of New Jersey, grandfather was the governor, summer vacations with the Kennedy's? That Thomas Hughes?"

Cuddy nodded, the money sparkling green in her blue eyes.

"House never had him as a patient," Wilson stated. Wilson knew the names of House's former patients better than House did. To House, patients were a list of symptoms, a puzzle leading to an ingenious diagnosis that only he could have made. A name was not a symptom in a differential.

"His four year-old daughter," Cuddy began to explain. "Apparently their nanny brought her in to the clinic a few months ago. Not being from a wealthy family and not knowing what insurance the kid had . . ."

"She brought her to the clinic because she comes to clinic. She knows it's free," Wilson finished.

"Apparently the kid saw House, who, after chastising her nanny for waiting more than a week to bring the girl in, admitted her with what was later confirmed as Tularemia. Turns out the new pet rabbit was from the backyard, not the pet store. Mom and Dad were in the Bahamas and had no idea."

"Which explains House's speech about the merits of requiring a license to procreate that I received a few months back," Wilson concluded. "So the parents are overjoyed that their little girl is alive and well?" He looked to Cuddy for confirmation and she nodded. "And now they want to write a check with what I'm guessing is some number followed by, say, nine zeros." Again, Cuddy nodded. "What's the catch?"

 Cuddy took a deep breath. "He wants a very public event at which to hand over this generous donation," she began, "with all of the money promised to the free clinic," she gulped, "to be accepted by Doctor Gregory House."

Wilson half laughed, half grunted. "Has he actually met House?" he asked Cuddy.

She gave him a coy smile. "Let's just say that you weren't the only one who got a lecture on licenses for procreation."

"So they know he's an ass?" Wilson said, trying to wrap his head around the idea of an insulted parent, and Forbes One Hundred listed top lawyer, wanting to be anywhere near his brilliant yet socially caustic friend, except of course, in court. "By any chance, is there something other than a healthy daughter behind this public endorsement of preventive health care, using a world famous diagnostician who just happens to be a self-righteous ass as a figure head?"

Cuddy leaned forward. "I wouldn't put it past Hughes to have a little fun making House squirm for a cause while he works on stuffing the campaign coffers with a pledge to single-handedly lead the charge for health care reform."

Wilson leaned back and took a deep breath. "Damn. You are screwed."

Cuddy let her head fall back against the couch. "Oh, God," she felt her stomach turn. "It's not like I can say no, Wilson. Charitable giving is down and the clinic is suffering as it is."

"You know House is going to see right through this." Wilson sympathized, but wouldn't sugar coat the predicament. "He won't do it, no matter how many zeros are on that check. He has," it sounded weird even as he said it, "scruples."

"Which is why I need your help," Cuddy pleaded. "There must be something you have on House? Something humiliating enough to get him to accept that check with minimal damage to the hospital?"

Wilson put up his hands in self-defense. "Hey, I wish I did, but the guy doesn't embarrass easy. And he tends to take a certain pride in concocting elaborate schemes to turn the tables on any poor sap who tries." He saw the panic starting to rise as Cuddy slowly wrung her hands together. "Don't you have anything on him?"

She scoffed. "I can't threaten to fire him. I do that and he's no longer obligated to accept the money."

"True," Wilson said, cringing at the idea that House felt obligated to do anything.

"I guess I could threaten to get rid of someone on his team," she considered. "Though I doubt he'd care enough to save any one of them."

"Probably not," Wilson agreed.

"Wilson, if the board finds out the hospital missed out on funding to keep the clinic running for an entire year without spending another dime they'll go after the money themselves. And House's department will be the first to go." She cringed at the thought. House could be an ass, but she liked owning that ass.

"A normal, rational person would take that as reason enough to play along," Wilson said. "But House . . ."

"Is not normal and rational only when it suits him," Cuddy finished Wilson's thought. "What if we don't tell him?" she tossed out. "We trick him into putting on a suit and tie and shove him in front of the check before he knows what hit him?"

Wilson laughed at her desperation. "Right. You get the chloroform and we'll stuff him in the trunk of my car. Piece of cake."

Cuddy laughed at herself. It would never work, but she liked the picture she had of stuffing House into Wilson's trunk.

Sliding off the sofa, Cuddy began to pace the length of the room. "Okay," she said, processing out loud. "Then I bargain. I do it all the time. What does House want that he can't get without my approval?"

"Badly enough to be a willing hypocrite in front of the entire hospital, Hughes political chums, and likely the news media?" Wilson bottom lined it for her.

"In a tux," Cuddy added and Wilson chuckled.

Cuddy continued to pace in the failing light, her stocking feet padding against the floor, her body tired and stiff, her mind searching and discarding. She'd pace all night if Wilson let her.

"Okay," he began, timid at first. "I do have one idea and you'll probably fire me for it, but I'm just going to throw this out there and let it land where it may."

Cuddy stared at him expectantly.

"You'll have to sleep with him," Wilson said plainly. He knew he should feel like a heel for even saying it, but the words brought a surprising sense of relief, as if the weight he carried being the buffer for House and Cuddy's cat and mouse antics over the years had slid from his shoulders. It didn't even sound that ridiculous now that he'd said it out loud. Dynamics change with time, even between two people who found pleasure in being one insult ahead of the other.

As for Cuddy, she didn't even appear shocked. She simply rolled her eyes and crossed her arms tight against her chest. "I'm not sleeping with House," she said in a calm, firm tone. "But thank you for that constructive idea."

Wilson took that as his cue and stood up, crossing the room and placing one hand gently on her shoulder. "Cuddy, it's late. Go home, get some rest. You'll figure out something."

She smiled, tired and grateful for his concern. "Thank you."

He turned to leave and feeling her gaze hot on his neck, turned back at the opened the door and promised, "I won't say a thing to House."

She looked at him appreciatively. "Goodnight, Wilson."

"Goodnight, Cuddy."

House gripped the bottom of his cane, leaning back ever so slightly, releasing the ball that usually held court on his desk from its crook. It landed with a pleasing thud against the wall above the light box on his office wall and bounced back, returning to balance on the grip before being launched again at the wall. Each pass of the ball let House serve out one more piece in the puzzle he was currently attempting to wrap his head around.

Wilson was being unusually accommodating. THUD. Not only had he bought lunch every day this week, he hadn't given House his usual scolding when he'd asked to borrow a couple hundred bucks without explanation. THUD. Not that House had any reason behind asking for the cash other than that he could. THUD. "Consider this, and the rest of the money you owe me, a down payment," Wilson had said, "for a favor." THUD.

His team had barely challenged him on even the most ridiculous diagnoses or treatments in their most recent case. THUD. They hadn't gone around him and tried to cover their asses. THUD. They'd even been willing to fudge the truth a little to get the needed consent forms signed. THUD.

And then there was Cuddy. THUD. She hadn't come after him for the useless consent forms for a procedure that had little chance of giving him anything diagnostically relevant. THUD. Or chastised him for his usual, vocal ogling of her wardrobe, her perfectly tight ass, or her perfectly sculpted breasts. THUD. She hadn't even called him on the clinic hours he'd been cheating his way out of, arriving late, escaping early, all while managing to keep his quota of insults for truly idiotic patients. THUD.

He caught the ball firmly in his right hand on its return, setting aside his cane. There was a conspiracy afoot, likely on a massive scale, all to get House to agree to something, likely vital to the hospital, of which those closest to him knew he would never willingly consent. His lips slid into a smug grin and his eyes danced as he sifted through the possibilities that came to mind. He felt the endorphins begin to course through his body as he realized that the ball, literally, was in his court. He would need to be prepared with a price, his price, for whatever it was they were conspiring to have him do.

"This," he said, placing the ball back on the desk, "could be fun."

The elevator chimed and Lisa Cuddy stepped out, heels clicking softly on the tile floor as she scanned the vicinity for signs of unwanted personnel lingering past the eight o clock hour. Wilson's office was empty, a good sign, and the janitors were still busy on the lower floors. There was no movement from the coffee cart down the hall. She had watched carefully to be sure House's staff had left, marking each of their departures as one step closer to the inevitable hour of her undoing. Finally, she took in a deep breath as she saw the one remaining light on, the one behind his door, and forced herself to march confidently towards it.

She pushed the glass door aside with ease and strode halfway into the office before stopping dead center with what she hoped was a gentle and sincere smile on her face. He sat casually behind his desk, feet up, with a diagnostics journal on his desk and the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition in his hands.

"Dr. Cuddy," he said with a coy air as he lowered his feet to the floor, deliberately laying the centerfold open on his desk.

"Dr. House," she said pleasantly. She tried getting a read on him. On the one hand, he was relaxing with soft porn, which she interpreted as House being House, and therefore not suspicious of her motives for the late night visit. On the other hand, House rarely stayed this late even when he had a case, which she knew he no longer did, which made her nervous that he suspected something and had decided to wait her out. Either way, it didn't change what she had come here to do. The only way out was through.

"I have a proposition for you, House." Cuddy heard herself screaming inside her head. Proposition! House! Could she have chosen a more inappropriate word?

He didn't disappoint, not missing a beat. "If you've got the million dollars," he toyed with her, "I will definitely sleep with you. Or let you have Wilson. Who's the Demi Moore in this remake?" He held her gaze, tempting her to lash back with something equally clever.

"Huh," she let a condescending laugh pass her lips as she found herself facing off once again with her favorite sparring partner. "As much as I'd love to watch you roll around naked in pile of cash," she said with a throaty lilt that left goose bumps on the back of House's neck, "I'm afraid this indecent proposal has nothing to do with sex."

House watched Cuddy slide into the chair across from him, lifting one perfectly bare leg over the other until she sat, creamy thighs seductively crossed beneath her linen pencil skirt. He made no attempt to hide the fantasy of watching her perfectly shaped legs, and everything that came after, spread out on his bed, a wicked smile on her pouty lips as she slid between crisp hundred dollar bills. It made her flush slightly to see herself so clearly in the image behind House's leering blue eyes.

"How do I look in green?" she asked, cutting the tension.

House breathed visibly for the first time in almost a minute. "Good," he answered, refocusing his attentions. "So, what's this proposal you've got everyone so worked up about?"

"Excuse me?" Cuddy tried to clarify.

"Wilson is trying to bribe me with obscene," he let his eyes bug out for effect, "amounts of cash. Foreman is trying to get in under the radar by letting me do insanely dangerous and unnecessary procedures." Cuddy's brow furrowed in slight panic at that. "Oh relax," he told her. "I didn't actually do any of them." He watched as she let out a sigh of relief. "And you, Dr. Cuddy, "he said in his most accusatory tone, "have done absolutely nothing. No stern yet delightful little reprimands for the very public compliments on your stunning ass." He saw her try to hide a smile. "No threats to cut off my Vicodin supply if I don't stop popping the pills in front of the patients. And, most damning of all," he paused for dramatic effect, "no afternoon delight yelling matches in your office over my lack of clinic hours." He sat back, a satisfied smirk on his face.

"You got me," she admitted. Sliding the chair closer, Cuddy rested her elbows against the glass top of House's desk, sure to lean forward just enough to offer him a glimpse down her lacy pink blouse. A distracted House was always easier to deal with than a smug House.

He fidgeted slightly, torn between taking the offered view of Cuddy's forbidden fruit and getting to the part of their conversation where he refused to do whatever she needed him to do. After that, the real negotiating could begin, and he was looking forward to that part of the conversation almost as much as staring down Cuddy's blouse.

"I need you to accept a check on behalf of the hospital and the free clinic," Cuddy plowed ahead, eager to get House onboard while he still thought he had a chance of seeing more than a glimpse.

"Sure," House said, never taking his eyes off her chest. "Where do I sign?" Was she wearing a front clasp or a back clasp?

"It's not coming by messenger, House," Cuddy told him.

"Back," he announced suddenly.

"What?"

"Your bra," House gestured towards her breasts. "Cleavage like that, no way those puppies stay in with a front clasp."

Cuddy straightened, rolled her eyes, and started over. "Almost three months ago you had a patient, Olivia Hughes," she began.

"If you say so."

"Her nanny brought her into the clinic while her parents were out of town," she continued. "You diagnosed her with pneumonia from Tularemia after you discovered she'd been cuddling up to her newly adopted backyard bunny."

House dropped his gaze off to the side. "Yes," he drew out. "It's comforting to know that when the best concierge doctors prescribe bed rest for a kid with pneumonia, which isn't your garden variety pneumonia, there's always a free clinic with a world class diagnostician just around the corner, willing to pick up the pieces of the rich and famous and their incompetence. I know I sleep better at night."

"As much as I appreciate your sarcasm," Cuddy agreed, "it's that warm, fuzzy feeling that brought this . . ." she searched for a word that embodied the predicament. She settled for two. "Blesséd mess, raining down on the hospital. Blessed for the hospital, mess for you, which in turn means a mess for me, seeing as the hospital being so blessed depends on your cooperation." Just saying it frazzled her nerves.

House stared at her, popping two Vicodin, curious to know what predicament she was so tied up in knots over needing his cooperation to solve.

"Thomas Hughes, Olivia's father, who it seems took your lecture on licenses to breed and health coverage for all to heart," Cuddy paused to allow House a few choice words of his own, "wants to give the clinic three million dollars at gala, a week from tonight, in your honor."

"Oh good God!" House exclaimed with a rumble. "It's your damn clinic! I'm there against my will! If it were up to me, his rich little princess would have died in some fancy New York hospital bed and he'd be spending the three million on his legal team."

Cuddy nodded. "You're probably right."

"The damn nanny brought the poor kid in! A college co-ed has more sense than the private doctors of the richest man in the state," he continued to rant. "Just tell the bastard I decided to take an extended vacation in Bermuda – "

"The Bahamas," Cuddy corrected him.

"The Bahamas," House spat out with stiff irony, "rather than make myself available to accept a donation on behalf the hospital. I'm sure he'll understand perfectly."

House was up and limping towards his easy chair at the other end of the office. With a loud flop, he crashed into the yellow chair and raised his right leg, rubbing his thigh in both pain and disgust. He waited, kneading the scar beneath his jeans, for what seemed like several minutes before looking up to see what was keeping Cuddy so quiet.

She stood just out of his reach, desperate to hold herself back from going to him, helping to somehow rid him of the pain he lived with every day. Pain, she was reminded, was in small part, her doing. Over the years, what guilt she felt for going against his wishes had eroded away. Some of it was time. Some of it was knowing she had been right. A lot of it was putting up with the grief House gave her daily in return. But a part of her still grieved over what he had lost. Times like these, she found it harder to stay focused on her role as a doctor rather than as an old friend. She knew that he used that against her. He was probably milking it right now. She didn't know if that made her more angry or sad.

"House," she said more firmly than she had intended to. Apparently, tonight, anger had edged sorrow out. "Look at me," she demanded.

He dropped his leg and turned his full, penetrating gaze on her. She was about to state her terms and conditions, and despite the dull ache in his leg, he knew he had to be on his game if he wanted to manipulate the situation to his advantage. This is what he'd been planning for all afternoon. Scheming after, considering variable after variable in an effort to make whatever inevitable task she required of him just as much fun for him as it would be for her. And three million dollars was a lot of fun in Cuddy's world.

"Do you actually think that I want you to accept that check, in front crowds of potential donors and from a man you'd rather humiliate than simply shout obscenities at in your head while you shake his hand and take the damn money?" Cuddy had to laugh to keep the tears away.

"Good, then we're agreed," House said. "I shouldn't be the one to accept the check. In fact, it's probably best if I stay away from the party altogether. Although, they probably have an open bar."

"House!" Cuddy was exacerbated. "There's no way around this one. I told him you were sick, he offered to reschedule. I told him you had taken an extended vacation, he said he'd come to you. I told him you'd fled the country. He recommended a private investigator!"

"What did he say when you told him I wouldn't do it because he's a hypocrite whose timely donation so happens to coincide with the deadline for announcing his candidacy for supreme ruler of universe?"

Cuddy sighed. "Senate, actually. And he said you were the most self-righteous ass he'd ever met and the only way this hospital would see a dime was if that self-righteous ass of a doctor stood next to the incompetent ass of father and shook his hand as he declared his candidacy for national office."

House looked at her, cheeks flushed, arms at her waist, heels digging into his carpet, a curl falling over one eye. God, she's beautiful when she's pissed.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" House teased, his smug grin beginning to return.

Cuddy waved the rouge curl back into place and let a tiny smile slip. "I may have found it somewhat cathartic," she admitted.

House was done with preliminaries. Time to go for the real foreplay.

"So what's in it for me?" he asked, not a trace of being anything less than serious in his voice.

"Hah!" Cuddy let out a mocking laugh. "Three million dollars for the clinic and an open bar." She raised her eyebrows, challenging him.

House remained deliberately calm. "Cuddy," he said, reprimanding her with her own name. "Come on. We both know that's not how this works."

She took a step back, leaning on the edge of his desk, arching her back, ever so slightly. "Really? How does this work then, House?"

He loved the way his name sounded when she was using it to manipulate him. Low and soft, every sound said with careful and deliberate control.

"You," he began, catching his breath, "make me a terribly insulting offer in return for my cooperation."

She felt her smile turn sultry as she watched him, hands behind his head, piercing blue eyes wandering up and down her perfectly positioned frame, wondering how many steps it would take to land her beneath him on the desk.

"Which you cleverly reject," she said, playing her part in the dance.

He grinned. "After which, I make a completely unrealistic counter offer," House continued, wondering how quickly he could get the remaining buttons on her blouse undone.

"Which I in turn reject, questioning your sanity, humanity, or some other appropriately lacking quality." She let her eyes graze over House's own muscular frame, lingering on his hands; strong, deliberate hands that practiced medicine like they practiced music, with the perfect touch.

"Followed," he continued, leaning forward to take her all in, "by your inevitable caving to my demands."

"Hmmm," Cuddy shifted seductively in front of him. "Not this time, House."

House could feel the blood pumping harder as he realized their tango wasn't over. This would be even more fun than he thought.

"Let's find out," he challenged her, raising an eyebrow tauntingly.

"Okay," Cuddy wet her lips, sure of herself. "Three million dollars, a five hour event, for which you will only be present for three."

"Three is better than five," House conceded.

Cuddy pushed herself up off the desk, taking small steps towards House. "For every one of those three hours that you are a visible, well-behaved, mildly charming, gracious guest of honor," she paused, "I will let you out of two full months of clinic duty."

She tried to gauge House's reaction so far. Damn his perfectly smug poker face!

"And," she continued her small, sultry steps closer to him, "If you survive all three of those hours without insulting or causing embarrassment to this hospital, me, yourself, or the guests and manage to pull off a gracious acceptance of Hughes donation without sarcasm or political commentary, I'll give you two extra months. That's eight months off clinic duty, at your discretion, any time you want to take it." She finished, her gracious offer now practically in House's lap, just like she was.

A puff of air escaped from between Houses lips, his face rising to meet hers. "You do see the irony in having me accept a check for a clinic in which I won't be working?" he couldn't resist pointing this out.

Gotcha, Cuddy said to herself, careful not to betray relief or victory on her face. She simply bent and gently pushed House's legs onto the floor, taking their place seated mere inches from him. "I thought you'd appreciate that. A little irony to sweeten the pot."

God, he loved watching her circling for the kill. Her blue eyes dancing, the corners of her luscious lips reaching further into her own unique, sly but inviting grin. Perched on the foot rest, legs crossed seductively, weight shifting towards him on one arm, the other running a slow hand down the length of her skirt, smoothing it, knowing he wanted to take that hand in his own and let it travel in the opposite direction. Time to up the ante.

"I don't know," House started off slow. "One million an hour for two months away from hell doesn't seem to quite add up."

Cuddy's mouth hung open in shock. She planted her feet firmly on the ground and sat straight up. "You're joking," she sputtered.

"Nope," House answered calmly. "Actually, now that I think about it, at that price you make me sound cheap," he pouted. "How about nine months off, with the extra two for taking the guy's money nicely."

"Nine!" Cuddy shot up, livid.

"It's divisible by three. Just trying to keep a sense of symmetry," House said without flinching.

"Eight months is ludicrous enough, House!" she exclaimed. "Eleven months – that's almost a year off clinic duty. I can't do that."

"Sure you can," he said, swinging himself out of the chair to stand over her. "If three million is worth at least eight months, why not tag on a few more?"

She shifted restlessly in front of him. "No."

"Afraid your little minions will rebel?" he taunted her. "Don't worry. It'll be our little secret."

"Right," Cuddy laughed. "Like you wouldn't throw a ticker tape parade down the halls for a get out jail free for a year card."

"I'd throw a parade for eight months," House shrugged. "Tell you what, how about we make it an even twelve months. I won't even take the extra two for good behavior."

House stared down at her, daring her with her eyes to say it. "You're insane, House!" she finally let the familiar words fall from her lips.

"See. I knew you remembered how this worked."

Hands firmly on her hips, Cuddy took a step forward, determined not to let him intimidate her. "What do you think is going to happen when the board discovers that you let three million dollars out the door because I'd only let you get away with not doing your job for eight months instead of twelve?"

"I think they'll wonder why you were so eager to give me the first eight in the first place. Then they'll nail your pretty ass to the wall for bickering over four more," House said, raising his voice only to highlight the pretty ass portion of his argument. "Got a plan B?"

Cuddy shot him the most evil glare she could conjure. "There is no plan B," she said, and took a deep breath. She could only scream so long before he found it a turn on. "Unless you consider chloroform and Wilson's trunk plan B." She stood and returned to perch on House's desk, though not nearly so seductively this time.

"Can't be sure I wouldn't embarrass the hospital that way," he pointed out, limping slowly towards her.

"No shit," she rolled her eyes. "Wilson suggested I offer to sleep with you."

House stopped, smiled, with raised eyebrows. "Should have listened to Wilson. That's a plan B that might have actually worked."

She looked straight into his eyes. "I am not going to sleep with you, House."

"Don't have to," he said without missing a beat. "See, unlike you, I came prepared with a plan B."

He was almost to her now. She stood up straight, arms crossed defensively, eyes betraying intrigue behind anger. "Fine," she said quietly. "Let's hear it."

House took one final step, closing the distance between them to less than foot. He consciously willed himself to concentrate on her face, eager to give her the way out he'd been preparing for her most of the afternoon.

"I will play the well-behaved, mildly charming, gracious guest of honor for the evening," he enjoyed using her own words to his advantage, something she obviously didn't, "and you will have your three million in blood money."

"Oh please," Cuddy interrupted. "Cut to it, House."

"In exchange," he paused, taking in the moment, "for you agreeing to spend the rest of the evening, alone, with me."

He waited for the hysterical rant to begin, the expletives questioning the circumstances of his birth, the eye rolls, and the thin little smile that warned him he'd gone too far. Cuddy caught them all in her throat as they attempted to push their way out. She even managed to keep her eyes from moving farther than to the side before locking them back on House.

"Fine. Twelve months," she said, shoving him aside and making for the door.

"Interesting," House said, moving swiftly with his cane to block her retreat. She felt the wood land gently across her middle, stopping her long enough for House to reach her. She felt his warm breath on the nape of her neck, hitting just the spot that made her toes curl and her head swim. Damn him.

She forced herself to focus. "What? What's so damned interesting? That I caved? Or that I didn't let you go for 15 months?" She let out a quiet laugh. "That's divisible by three."

"No," House said, knowing exactly how far he needed to lean forward so the words he spoke had the desired effect. "What's interesting is that you would rather give me a year off clinic duty than spend one night alone with me. Just what are we doing in that vivid imagination of yours that makes you so eager to cave to such an insane demand?"

She pivoted on one heel, her eyes digging fiercely into his as she leaned back, looking ready to strike with some primitive force. But her voice was calm, soft even, when she spoke. "Three hours."

"Three?"

"The party is three hours," she stated evenly. "I'll give you three hours. Alone."

House leaned forward, both hands resting on his cane, feigning consideration. "The party is five hours. I only have to be there for three, but then there's the hour to pick out the most flattering shoes to go with the tux, make myself presentable. You understand. Plus there's travel time back and forth."

Cuddy shook her head. She was honestly amused. Pissed, but amused. House dropped the act and stood admiring that look openly, knowing he'd put it on her beautiful face.

"You do realize that in none of those five hours will I be having sex with you?"

"Like I said," House said, "you don't have to. In fact, I promise you, nothing that you don't want to happen, will." He gave her a suggestive grin.

"Just like you, during the party," she laid down her final term.

"Absolutely," House replied. "Though if you want to blur the lines a little, who am I to object?"

Cuddy flashed him her own suggestive grin, leaned up to brush against his ear, and whispered, "Not even for three million, House."

She pulled back and stood to face him squarely. "Five hours alone."

"Three hours of perfect gentleman," he responded.

"We'll see," Cuddy said, putting out her hand. He grasped it, shook once, lingering just long enough to make her begin to feel uncomfortable again.

"Always a pleasure doing business with you, Dr. Cuddy," he said, stepping back behind his desk.

"I'm glad," Cuddy said, turning to take her leave. Then seeing House reflected in the glass, perched behind his desk studying the centerfold as he had when she walked in, a long forgotten heat rose up inside her.

"By the way," she stopped to make sure she had House's attention, "it was Monopoly. In that vivid imagination of mine? I was the boot."

And with that she pushed through the door and retreated down the hallway, House no longer interested in any half naked woman but her.

The following days passed in a much more customary fashion. Wilson brought his lunch from home and succeeded, mostly, in keeping it from House's greedy hands. The only thing he lent out was the services of his dry cleaner, knowing full well that House's tux was likely lying limp in a puddle at the bottom of his closet. Finding more than just the tux in disarray, he also sent over his cleaning lady, more out of pity for Cuddy than as a favor to House.

House's team fell back in to their resistant ways. They challenged treatments and tests and argued over diagnoses in differentials. They protested ridiculous theories and lobbied for more obvious, treatable explanations. They bent to his will when they no longer had the energy to argue and covered their asses all while enjoying the untried and slightly dangerous form of medicine that branded House as both lunatic and genius.

Cuddy returned his smart ass commentary on her wardrobe with grace and sass. She rolled her eyes whenever he popped a Vicodin and spun empty threats about cutting the hospital pharmacy's supply. And though House kept slightly more regular hours in the clinic than he had the previous week, she still managed to find the time to scold him for his lack of due diligence.

Wilson had been informed of the deal in place by both parties. House, eager to flaunt his victory, spilled the news first thing the next morning.

Barging into Wilson's office, House had taken a seat on the couch, his face wearing a content expression, his eyes glittering with secret victory.

"Please tell me she didn't agree to sleep with you," Wilson had said upon seeing the delight that threatened to spill forth from every one of House's pours.

"Sadly, no," House told him. "But boy, do you get brownie points for putting it out there."

"Thanks," Wilson had replied nonchalantly. "So what did you get? A four day work week? Tighter nurses uniforms? Time off clinic duty?"

"She offered me a year off clinic duty," House had answered and Wilson's eyes had widened.

"That's unbelievable."

"I passed." House took great pride in seeing Wilson's face transform from shock to confusion.

"You passed?"

"Yep. Came up with something better."

Wilson, shaking his head, had given in. "Better than a year off clinic duty? This must be good."

"Oh it is," House had reassured. "I take the guy's money without embarrassing the hospital and she spends the rest of the evening alone, with me."

Wilson looked at House suspiciously. "I thought you said she wouldn't agree to sleep with you."

House had clucked his tongue. "Why does everyone assume that just because you spend the night alone with someone, you're having sex?"

"Because it's you, House."

"I see your point. Still," he'd reassured, "I am capable of restraint. Cuddy on the other hand . . ." and his voice had trailed off.

Wilson laughed. "You think that by playing the part of a perfect gentleman for a few hours, Cuddy will see the error of her ways and fall into bed with you?"

"Doesn't matter," House had said sincerely. "All I need is the time."

"Time?" Wilson had taken a moment to play with the word in his head, searching for an explanation for House's sudden shift in modus operandi. "This wouldn't have anything to do with you kissing Cuddy then being too chicken to do anything more about it, would it?"

"Don't know," House had answered.

"You really don't know, do you?"

House had stood up, eager to retreat before Wilson insisted on digging deeper into anything resembling feelings.

"House," Wilson had called after him, House turning reluctantly, trying to hide the vulnerability he felt surging up inside. "Good for you."

House had simply nodded and closed the door behind him. Wilson had smiled and turned to pick up the phone. Dialing Cuddy's extension, he asked her to lunch.

"An entire year off clinic duty?" Wilson had questioned Cuddy over Caesar salads that afternoon.

"I started with six months. House jacked it up to twelve before pulling the rug out from under me," she'd explained, picking at the greens on her plate.

"Can you survive an entire night with House?"

"I only have to survive five hours with him."

"Right, because the whole part where you get the check before the five hours starts will require no supervision on your part," he'd sarcastically pointed out.

"Ah," she'd smiled knowingly at him. "But I won't be the only one on House duty during the party."

Wilson took the hint. "Yes, well, God forbid he be allowed an unsupervised bathroom visit. He might try to saran wrap the toilet seats."

"Or put dish soap in fountain," Cuddy countered. "I'm sure that would go over fabulously with the historic society." They'd laughed.

"How did Hughes manage to get Prospect House on such short notice?" Wilson had asked, referring to the nineteenth century stone mansion that once housed the presidents of Princeton University, some of them before they moved on to be presidents with even more prestigious addresses, like 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. The manor and its extensive gardens now hosted meals for faculty and staff, department banquets, and high-end weddings, and was usually booked months in advance.

"Probably another generous donation," Cuddy had posited, sipping her water leisurely. "Any way, it's fine by me, wherever Hughes goes. I'm just thrilled he didn't want to use the hospital. I'd have to shut half the place down to get the number of people just on the preliminary guest list to fit."

"You know," Wilson had said with a smile, "you might want to sit back and just enjoy this."

"What do you mean?

"Cuddy, you work harder and put up with more crap than any hospital administrator or dean of medicine I've ever known, or ever will know," he'd said, causing her face to light up with thanks. "For once, why don't you just sit back, wear a gorgeous dress, and enjoy not being in charge of anything for the night."

She'd shaken her head and smiled, blushing slightly at the reference to the gorgeous dress. "And House?"

"Get a French maid's uniform and make him scrub your floors," Wilson suggested.

Cuddy had laughed. "Good idea, but the five hours is at his place."

"So make him scrub his floors in the French maid's uniform," Wilson turned it around. "And get photos. Then you'll have something on him the next time he tries to pull the rug out from under you."

Cuddy's face had turned from amused to thoughtful. "I just wish I knew what he was up to. Trading a year off clinic duty for five hours with me, with a no sex guarantee? That's not exactly something you expect from House."

Wilson had studied her for what seemed to Cuddy like ages. When he spoke, he was slow and careful. "Usually when House does something out of the ordinary it's because the equation has changed. Maybe this his way of solving for X."

Cuddy leaned in and lowered her voice. "House told you about our kiss?" She already knew the answer but she needed to hear it.

Wilson had been shy in his reply. "Yes, he told me. Which, by the way, means it meant something to him. If it hadn't, he'd have kept it from me until he needed it to screw with me at some point in the future."

Cuddy had thought that over carefully and had decided it was likely true. "I wish I knew what he was so afraid of."

Wilson had smiled at that. "House, as a rule, doesn't do well with change."

"So this is his way of dangling his feet in shallow end of the pool?" She hadn't been sure if she should take it as a compliment or not.

"Look," he'd told her as they'd finished off lunch. "House will do whatever House will do, regardless of how much you try to manage him. But as long as he's got those five hours with you dangling out there like a carrot, I think he'll behave."

"Great. Now all I have to worry about is what happens when he gets to the carrot."

"Like I said before, just relax and enjoy the evening," Wilson had said with a smile.

Cuddy let her conversation with Wilson wander in her mind over the next few days. She considered the tempting opportunity that merely required her to mingle in a lovely setting before watching House accept the three million for the clinic. She worked hard and desperately wanted to be able to enjoy herself for an evening, especially one in which the hospital would be taking in such a large donation. She suspected Wilson was right and that House would cooperate, as much as House ever cooperated.

She even let her mind wander over the idea of what came after the three million. House didn't adjust well to change but maybe this really was some effort on his part to explore something more than their usual dance and games. If she was honest with herself, she could find several moments over the last couple of years where they had come closer to letting the other one into their lives. If she were even more honest, she would have to admit that she enjoyed what they had, even looked forward to it most days.

But the days that she didn't enjoy were hell. House knew what to say and how to say it to inflict maximum damage. When he meant to hurt her, he knew how, and it was harder not to care now than it had been only a few years ago. Maybe that was because she cared more for him now, or he cared more for her and so resisted with greater force. Not exactly a healthy relationship, but at least she knew it, and so did he.

By the end of the week, she'd overanalyzed and rethought every possible outcome, motivation, feeling, desire, and interaction she'd ever had or could imagine having with House, and came to the conclusion that she was being ridiculous. Wilson was right about her enjoying the evening and that is what she fully intended on doing. Everything else could fall where it may.

She found herself preparing and replacing her evening ensemble as each updated guest list landed on her desk. When House had poked his head in one afternoon, just to see her squirm, she'd considered a trip to New York City for a whole new look.

"Hey," he'd called to her from her door, his head leaning into the room. "Did you see this guest list? Caroline Kennedy! We're the hottest ticket in town!"

She'd sunk another three inches in her chair, cursing men and their easy choice of tuxedo or jacket and tie. Then glancing at her calendar, she made two quick calls and cleared the remainder of tomorrow's afternoon schedule. She would not let House, the three million, the five hours, or the ritzy guest list get in the way of her well-deserved evening. She was going to enjoy herself and look damn good doing it.

Deleting emails from board members with congratulations and subtle warnings in the form of best wishes in dealing with House, Lisa Cuddy gathered up her things and strode out the door. She stopped at the nurses' station to let them know she would be in early tomorrow before taking the rest of the day off.

From his perch above the clinic's reception area, House watched as Cuddy seemed to find the energy that had threatened to escape her the last few days. He watched her lips as she leaned in to tell one of the nurses something, never losing her grace as she spoke with authority. He remembered those lips, soft then firm and inviting as he'd taken them in his own. He could taste her, just barely, even now.

Watching as she turned to leave, he saw her pause and look up, as if she'd known he was there the entire time. She raised her eyes to him, a curiously calm and contented smile stretched across the lips he recalled with such intensity. Before he could change his expression from anything other than private delight, she turned away and exited through the hospital's double doors. House chuckled silently at himself, not sure he had wanted her to see him any other way.

Chapter Text

House was busy in front of the bathroom mirror when Cuddy's knock sounded at the door. He'd traded her insistence on driving for his apartment for their five hours. No sacrifice, really, though something about Cuddy straddling the back of his bike in an evening gown had a definite appeal.

"It's open," he called out, inviting her in. His long fingers set about tying an expert bow at his throat. He heard her close the door behind her and the sound of heels tapping softly against the wooden floor in the living room.

"Be out in a minute," Cuddy heard him say from down the hall. Suddenly nervous, she took to exploring the contents of House's living room. It hadn't changed much since her last visit; the sofa perched in front of the television, books ranging from medical texts to classic mysteries lining tall shelves. Shelves, she noticed, that were dusted. And there was a glass on the coffee table with two short stem roses in full bloom spilling out on either side. Had he tidied up just for her? The idea tickled her.

She turned to touch the keys on his baby grand. House heard the high notes being played softly as he stood silently, watching her from the doorway. Her back to him, he appreciated the view. Ruby red silk cinched tightly around her bodice, one shoulder covered in a shear drape that cut loosely across her bare back, dipping to gather seductively just below the top of her waist. It left a crescent moon of exposed, ivory flesh, bare and flawless, that made his throat tighten and his pants swell. Her hair fell in loose waves at her shoulders; one side pinned up in a full curl, held in place by a decorative comb of antique porcelain and painted glass in the shape of a blossoming, fiery orchid.

A life size Varga girl stood in his living room. There was a God.

Cuddy felt his eyes on her like warm hands caressing her body. She didn't dare turn around, enjoying the sensation of heat that enveloped her as she felt his eyes traveling up the slit in her dress from her strappy gold sandals, along her bare legs, up to where the fabric stopped at the waist to reveal her delicate bare back above the rounded curves of her ass. No need to wonder where the clasp was placed this time. There wasn't any. And damn if she couldn't hear him silently speculating on whether or not she'd bothered to dress her bottom where she hadn't her breasts. Her exposed flesh prickled from the heat of his gaze and the cool of the room. The sensation was worth every penny she'd laid out for the evening gown.

With a deep breath she cleared the sensations from body and mind and turned slowly to find him staring at her from the doorframe, blue eyes wide, mouth shut tight, frame rigid, mind only on her. She smiled sweetly at him in his black trousers and white dress shirt, bow tie slightly crooked. Had she finally managed to render him speechless?

"House?" she softly spoke.

"Sorry," he finally managed to get out after another long moment of staring. The view from the front was just as beautiful as from the back and almost as delicious. There was a hint of bashfulness in the admiration on his face, as if he almost felt guilty over being discovered undressing her. Almost.

Cuddy waited patiently in front of him for whatever cleverly demeaning comment he was about to make about her appearance to shatter the moment. Instead, she was surprised to see House meeting her eyes full on, a tentative but genuine look of appreciation spreading across his rugged face. He hadn't shaved exactly, but the two day growth of stubble she had expected was tamed significantly. He took a step towards her.

"You look," he paused, searching for the appropriate word, "stunning."

The air escaped from her lungs in one quick rush, and Cuddy's mouth relaxed into an easy smile. "You're pretty dashing yourself," she told him honestly, then moved to correct the angle of his bowtie. "Very James Bond."

He enjoyed the soft touch of her fingers at his throat. "Does that mean you brought the Aston Martin?" he joked, trying to relieve the tension in the air.

She let out a throaty laugh. "Sorry. Not even my expense account covers that."

Cuddy finished fussing with his tie and House grabbed his cane from where it had stood against the wall. A couple of steps later, he'd swept up his jacket from where it lay across a chair and turned back to face Cuddy, jacket held out, arms up, legs slightly a part. "I'm ready for my strip search, boss."

Her eyes narrowed. Now this was the House she'd expected when she'd knocked on his door that evening. "Sorry," she winced. "Wilson drew the short straw on that one."

"You're no fun," he teased as he slipped the tuxedo jacket on and stood holding the door open for her.

Cuddy's grin turned sly. "House," she said, deliberately brushing up against him on her way out, "I am more fun than you could ever handle."

House stared after her, eyes wandering down her bare back as she exited his apartment. Shutting it behind him and limping after her, he whispered, "God, I hope so."

"If you need to take your Vicodin, do it now," Cuddy instructed House, who sat patiently next to her in the passenger's seat. "Once we're inside, the only time that pill bottle comes out is when you're locked alone in a bathroom stall. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," House saluted, swallowing his precious pain killer.

Cuddy wound her way through the narrow streets of Princeton's campus, passing a mix of gothic halls and more modern facilities as she curved her way towards Prospect House. The evening light filtered down through a canopy of distinguished elms and tulip poplars, casting shadows over the lingering heat of the day. Black iron street lamps were just beginning to glow as she approached the drive beside the old mansion. Bright orange and pink rhododendrons lined the paths behind the estate's fence, in front of which several young men in slacks and vests stood awaiting guests.

Crawling to a stop, Cuddy slid the passenger side window down and leaned slightly forward and over House to address the attendant. House took in the fresh, light scent of magnolia and spice that followed her every move. He found it seductive and invigorating.

"Good evening," the young man at the window nodded pleasantly.

House spoke before Cuddy managed to get more than a syllable out. "And a good evening to you," he replied, a stiff smile forming at his mouth. "Doctors House and Cuddy. I believe we're on the guest list?"

"Of course," the attendant smiled, snapping his fingers at one of the other young men nearby. "We've been anxiously awaiting your arrival, sir." Almost as an afterthought, he nodded to Cuddy. "Mam."

Cuddy sat back in her seat and resisted the urge to wipe the smug grin from House's face.

"If you'll kindly turn off the motor and hand your keys to Carl," the young man gestured to the attendant who was ready to open Cuddy's door, "we'll take care of the parking arrangements and you can go in and enjoy your evening."

"Thank you," Cuddy nodded to Carl who helped her thoughtfully from the car. She placed her keys in his palm and he slid into the driver's seat, flushing in obvious admiration of her. She crossed behind the car and stepped in beside House on the walk, head held high at the thought of turning a college boy's head.

None of this went unnoticed by House, who was quick to lean in and whisper, "Jail bait."

Cuddy gave him a sarcastic smirk then forced him to gently take her arm. He patted her hand where it rested at his side and leaned forward on his cane. "Thank you, my good man," House dipped his head at the valet attendant.

He began his slow escort of Cuddy up the path, eyeing his surroundings carefully. "Notice the local news vans just up the road?" he asked her.

Cuddy glanced back over her shoulder then back to House. "I'm not surprised."

"No, but you are nervous," he told her, feeling Cuddy's fingers dig a little deeper into his arm. "We still have a deal?" he asked, continuing forward, voice steady.

Cuddy looked him directly in the eye. "You do your part and I'll do mine," she said coolly.

He caught the challenge flickering behind her sapphire eyes. Licking his lips, he pulled her closer with his elbow, and without malice or mayhem, simply said, "This will be fun."

After a few moments hesitation, she relaxed and let out a delightful laugh, falling easily in step with him as they pushed into the cool air of the mansion.

She could almost believe him.

Wilson had been sipping a martini when he spotted House's tall frame shuffling through the entryway. The sight of Lisa Cuddy draped on House's arm caused him to choke on the cool vodka. Swiping a cocktail napkin, he quickly wiped at his mouth and returned the glass to bar beside him.

"Wow," he said, crossing the room to the small rotunda they now occupied. He gave Cuddy an approving smile and House a sly grin as she spun once in front him. "Now that's a dress. You look gorgeous."

"Thank you." Cuddy stepped forward to give Wilson a quick embrace, a large smile reaching from the curve of her mouth to the corners of her eyes.

"Hey," House frowned. "She's not the only one in the room, you know." Then to Cuddy, "He never notices me anymore."

"Yes," Wilson said in a low and mocking tone. "Well, that jacket has a very slimming effect, House. And the cane sets off your eyes beautifully."

"Thank you," House replied cheerily. "Nice to know you still care."

Cuddy rolled her eyes playfully before redirecting their attention. "Have you spotted our host?" she asked Wilson.

"I was expecting him to roll out the red carpet," House interrupted.

"In the Presidential Dining Room," Wilson answered. "I believe he was settling on a tee time with the governor and a group of gentlemen I assume are potential campaign donors."

Cuddy raised a jeweled hand to her eyes. "This is going to be a nightmare."

"Oh relax," House told her. "This will be the easiest three million you ever make."

She stared at him in disbelief.

"Wilson, where's the bar?" House asked. "Cuddy needs a drink."

"Garden room," Wilson nodded behind him, shooting Cuddy a sympathetic smile, and turned to lead the way.

"When was the last time you ate?" Cuddy whispered to House as they made their way through the crowded halls.

"Let me think . . ."

"House!" she shot a quiet exclamation his way and pulled him to the side as they entered the large room at the back of the house that hosted not only the bar but the most beautiful view of the expansive gardens that surrounded the back of the estate. "You cannot be drunk, understand? You can't even give off the appearance of being slightly tipsy. So I'm going to ask you again, when was the last time you ate?"

"You're exquisite when you're demanding," he said coyly. "How do you do it? Calm down. Wilson left me my own slice of his special recipe lasagna. I ate it less than hour before you showed up."

"Which would explain why the lid marked with my name was missing from the fridge while the lid with your name in large black marker was left behind," Wilson sighed.

"Hey, you're slice was bigger," House defended. "Didn't your mother ever warn you about the one who cuts not being the one who chooses his half?"

"Yes, well, I apologize for not using a measuring tape," Wilson replied.

"Fine," Cuddy separated the two. "Just stay convincingly sober, please."

"Not a problem," House told her then stepped up to the bar. "I'll take a scotch."

"I'm fine," Wilson told the bartender.

"Right," House continued, looking at Cuddy. "She'll have – "

"A glass of red wine," Cuddy finished before House could order her something deathly intoxicating. "Thank you."

"Living dangerously?" House raised an eyebrow at Cuddy.

She just smiled. "You have no idea." And he smiled back.

Cuddy had barely enough time to catch her breath before she heard the voice that would put this whole night into motion, likely spinning far from her control.

"Doctor House!" Thomas Hughes called from across the room, closing fast. The forty-something business man with salt and pepper hair and perfect smile looked eagerly at House who stood above him by a good three inches. He put out his hand which House shook without hesitation, much to Cuddy's relief. The hand that slapped House on the shoulder with a friendly thud was not returned, which she considered best for all concerned.

"The guest of honor has arrived," Hughes smiled warmly. "So glad you could come, Greg. May I call you Greg?"

Both Wilson and Cuddy winced.

"Sure, Tom," House simply countered with the coolest smile he could muster. "May I call you Tom?"

Hughes laughed good-naturedly, nodding. "Doctor Cuddy," Hughes bent to plant a light kiss on her hand. "You look lovely this evening."

"Thank you," she said kindly, looking to see how House would react. She found he tended to be possessive of her at times.

House begrudged no one a good look at Lisa Cuddy, but when it came to actual contact, he often bristled at the sight. He could feel his chest puffing up even now, some evolutionary reaction his rational mind knew he had no claim to produce. And one he could swear she had noticed.

"You remember my wife," Hughes said, bringing over a tall blond with a short bob and one of the best boob jobs House had ever seen spilling out of her midnight blue, strapless gown. "Megan, you remember Doctor House."

"How could I forget?" She leaned forward and pressed a quick hug against House. This time it was House's turn to catch Cuddy trying to retract her claws. "Thank you again, Doctor House, for everything you did for our daughter."

"Just doing my job," he said, hoping it sounded humble and not hollow.

"So nice to see you again," Cuddy reached out with both arms and clasped Megan Hughes hands tightly.

"And you," she replied. "I can't tell you how grateful my husband and I are to you for allowing us to show our appreciation for your staff's hard work this way."

Cuddy's smile widened. "Believe me, I am the one who is truly grateful."

Wilson cleared his throat, handing House his scotch and Cuddy her wine.

"This is Doctor James Wilson," Cuddy immediately introduced them.

"I thought I had met all of Doctor House's team," Megan Hughes probed, allowing Wilson to linger at their handshake.

"Doctor Wilson is head of our Oncology department," Cuddy quickly clarified.

"You do seem very familiar," Hughes himself said.

"Yes, well, the words 'best friend and loyal sidekick' follow the M.D. on my business cards, at least where Doctor House is concerned," Wilson said, laying on the charm. It had the desired effect and Megan Hughes breasts bounced playfully in front of his eyes.

House leaned in close to Hughes and gave him a sly smile. "Careful with that one, Tom. Doctor Wilson is on the hunt for wife number four, if you know what I mean." He exaggerated a playful wink.

Hughes chuckled and retrieved his wife's hand. "I appreciate the warning," he told House, not the least bit threatened. "If you'll excuse us," he said to all three, "I have a few guests yet to greet. Please, enjoy your evening. I'll be sure to let you know when we're ready for the presentation." He cut a hard glare at both House and Cuddy.

"Of course, thank you," Cuddy nodded agreeably.

"Can't wait," House added, straining with enthusiasm.

"Well, aside from House's reference to my failed personal life," Wilson said once the Hughes had wandered out of earshot, "I think that went rather well."

"Surprisingly, not a disaster," Cuddy said and sipped her wine.

"Never doubted it for a moment," House followed with a self-satisfied grin and a large swig of his scotch.

The evening progressed rather smoothly, with both Cuddy and Wilson running interference for House at a much slower pace than either had anticipated.

Twilight began to creep away behind the fir trees that lined the back of the gardens, the warmth of the day being slowly replaced by the cool night breezes of late spring. Cuddy stood engaged in conversation along one of the estate's winding paths, not far from the house itself. Illuminated Chinese lanterns swayed gently with the breeze, casting shadows that caused her eye to wander.

House had been with Wilson for almost a half an hour. It had given her a chance to speak with both hospital and political donors, the president of the university, and at present, the mayor, without needing to worry about what House might say or do to embarrass her and the hospital further into the red. Though she appreciated the time to discuss improving the hospital's outreach, Cuddy found herself strangely disappointed at the business turn of affairs the night had taken.

House was making this much too easy, she thought, as she tried to respond intelligently to the mayor's lofty goals for the free press that the clinic could potentially bring to the city. The thought of House being agreeable, even slightly charming at times over the evening, kept her distracted. He'd kept the insults under his breath and to a minimum, his hand shake firm, a pleasant if insincere smile on his face, and was eager to casually slide the conversation her way whenever it strayed towards areas he so obviously wanted to mock.

House was playing the part of the perfect gentleman, as promised, at least as close as House could play it. It both fascinated and terrified her in one breath.

House was feeling significantly distracted himself. It wasn't just the way she looked, though he'd never dreamed that Cuddy could be so sexy with this amount of clothing on. She seemed to be enjoying herself and it actually made him smile to think he might have a part to play in her more laissez-faire approach to this evening's events. He usually had the opposite effect on her, tying her up into knots until she exploded at him, which House found peculiarly arousing. Watching her now, body relaxed, eyes calm, lips and cheeks rosy from the red wine and the cool evening breeze, he found himself just as aroused by this side of her.

From the terrace overlooking the gardens, House continued to watch as Cuddy tried to keep her focus on the conversation in front of her.

"Who's that with Cuddy?" he asked Wilson, who was leaning on deck beside him.

Wilson squinted in the failing light. "Uh, I think that's the Mayor."

It was then that House found Cuddy's eyes gazing up, wandering and finally settling on him. He saw the unabashed smile she threw him, lingering when she noticed he, too, had locked on to her with his steely blues.

"Time for a rescue," he said, mostly to himself, though Wilson didn't miss it.

"Just be careful, House," Wilson warned with wry and encouraging smile.

"Always." House headed for the garden, with one small detour.

Cuddy could hear him approaching from behind a minute later, his shuffle and cane softly crunching along the pebble-strewn path. She mentally admonished herself for being grateful for what she desperately hoped would be an excellent excuse to escape her current dealings. Turning to him, then back, she paused her conversation. "Mr. Mayor, this Doctor House," she motioned as House approached.

"Doctor House," the Mayor had stepped forward to shake his hand. House had obliged with his right, his left hand finding the small of Cuddy's bare back and resting nonchalantly there. He felt electricity shoot through his palm and up her spine.

Surprised, Cuddy trapped a gasp in her throat and tried to push aside the dizzying heat she felt creeping up her body at the simple gesture of contact House had laid on her. Her heart skipped a beat trying to think back to the last time a man had touched her there, gentle and warm and undemanding. Easy, as if to lead her into a room, but asking her to go nowhere. She hadn't felt a man's touch like this for long enough that it made her quite conscious of how much she missed such a simple and now intoxicating gesture.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," she heard House speak, still against his warm hand, "but I was just speaking with one of the Tribune's reporters and she had several questions that, I assume, only you could answer, Mr. Mayor." He played on the politician's thirst for the limelight.

"Well then. Out front?"

"Just inside the library," House directed him.

"Thank you, Doctor House," the Mayor said, already taking a step towards the house. "If you'll excuse me, Doctor Cuddy. I'll try and catch up to you later?"

"Absolutely," Cuddy had dismissed him quickly and pleasantly, trying to hide the crack in her voice. She was left relatively alone with House in mere moments. With her head no longer swimming from his initial contact, she turned her head sideways to look at him. "Please, please tell me that you didn't actually speak to a reporter," she begged.

"Nah," House told her. She relaxed under his touch and turned to face him. "I just thought that would be the easiest way to rescue you from what appeared to be an utterly boring conversation." He slid easily out of his jacket and placed it gently around her shoulders.

"Rescue me?" she said playfully, accepting his gesture and snuggling into his coat.

House shrugged. "I can always get him back here if you'd like."

"Don't you dare." He was pleased to see her smiling up at him with a lively grin and he returned it. "We probably should," Cuddy suggested, "go over a few talking points, just in case the press does ask you a question."

House just shook his head. "What's the point? They'll only misquote me." He couldn't stop staring down at her perfectly curved mouth. He pulled her closer by the lapels.

"Well, a misquote is the story I'm sticking with if anyone asks," she informed him with a coy upturn of the mouth he'd been so fervently fixated on.

They stared at each other. The moment was broaching on intimate.

"So, how am I doing so far?" he asked softly.

"So well, it's actually freaking me out a little," she admitted, grinning.

The side of his mouth curled into smile. "I tell you you have nothing to worry about and still you doubt me?"

"Hah," Cuddy mocked. "The last time you assured me I had nothing to worry about the hospital lost an MRI machine."

"Right," House was reminded. "Isn't there a statute of limitations on holding the destruction of hospital property against me?"

"Sure," Cuddy replied a glibly. "It's directly correlated to the dollar amount needed to replace the equipment."

"So I'm pretty much screwed then," House conceded.

Cuddy chuckled then noticed his eyes drift from her hers, looking about expectantly.

"House?" she said, wondering what held his attention now. It was then that she began to hear what he had been anticipating. Music. Soft and low and floating out from the terrace, she could hear the familiar notes begin to wash down on her, soothing and sultry. Eric Clapton.

"You asked them to play this," she looked up at him with a curious grin. He looked back with an innocent expression. She laughed and dropped her head. "You know I love this song."

"Everyone loves this song," House shrugged. "It's Clapton. It's genius."

"It's Wonderful Tonight," she said, shaking her head. "And you know how I feel about this song."

House stared, a shrewd glint in his eye. "More what it does to you."

"Right," Cuddy admitted. Slowly, she returned his jacket and backed away. "Nice try, but I don't think you're in any shape to dance."

He slipped his hand around her wrist and she stopped an arm's length away. Nodding in the general direction of the mansion, he looked over the small crowd of people who had taken to each other's arms and said, "That's not dancing. That's swaying. Any idiot can sway." Then with a practiced slip of his grip, House let her wrist go and found her fingers, curled them around his own, and spun her into him tightly, then back out slowly, turning her like a ballerina a top a music box.

He watched her, light fabric lifting in the breeze, curls bouncing perfectly in rhythm. Her face lit up and her eyes danced alongside the music. He marveled at her skin, soft as he pulled her back into him. Another lilting laugh filled the air and he heard himself let out a pleased chuckle.

They stood there, unbearably close, eyes locked on the others, no fancy footwork needed to feel the music between them. To Cuddy, the moment seemed unbearably long. For House, it passed in an instant.

"We still have a check to collect," Cuddy's soft and now tentative voice broke through.

House looked up, pulling gently away from her. "Right."

Looking back down at Cuddy, she now appeared fragile, her features betraying an apologetic yet almost wishful character. House managed to smile a bit and place a reassuring hand on her shoulder, showing her there was no harm done. After all, these were her hours, not his, and he had an agreement to keep.

At quarter past ten, Hughes had gathered his 500 plus guests along the lawn in front of Prospect House.

"Just in time to make the eleven o clock news," House whispered to Cuddy as they joined a handful of people on the front porch of the estate.

"Just shut up and take the check, House," Cuddy murmured, trying to keep a cool smile on her face in front of the crowd and now the lights of several television news crews. "God, for once let a politician keep it short and sweet."

"Hey," House turned to her, pouting. "I did save the guy's kid. That deserves a little pomp and flare."

"Exactly what I'm worried about."

"Killjoy."

"This thing on?" Hughes fumbled with the microphone, getting a small laugh from the crowd.

"Oh, please," House sighed. "They're not actually falling for this, are they?" He felt Cuddy's hand at the back of his leg and shot her a surprised but welcome glance as her nails skirted his inner thigh. "Why, Cuddy, you little –"he was abruptly and painfully cut off. Cuddy's fingers were now firmly holding the back of his right thigh, the front of which held the scars of the incident that left him in pain years later. It was a phantom twinge, one he'd reacted instinctively to when he felt the pressure on his bad limb, but one that by no means hurt. The terror was implied.

"You were saying?" she looked at him, the angle of her body to his hiding her grip. House took a moment to appreciate the look of full control that spread across her face. He knew he was taking a risk when he stole a page from her playbook and placed a discrete hand above the place where silk gathered at the bottom of her bare back. He felt her twinge.

Before either could react, Hughes began speaking, and they both drew their eyes forward, though their minds were decidedly elsewhere.

"I want to thank you all for being here this evening," Hughes began, "as my wife, Megan, and I, celebrate two turning points in our lives; two events that have increasingly intersected over the last few months.

"First, we are here to show our gratitude for our precious daughter, Olivia, who, thanks to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital and especially, one Doctor Gregory House, we might not be celebrating a fifth birthday with next week."

Hughes raised his champagne glass to House and the guests applauded. House did his best impression of a humble smile as he felt Cuddy's nails dig just a little further into his leg.

"You see," Hughes continued as House took comfort in drawing light circles over Cuddy's hips, seeing her struggle to maintain her calm. "You see, only three months ago, Megan and I were away, celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary," Hughes paused as the crowd politely applauded again, "when our daughter became ill. It seemed to be nothing more than a cold, which her doctors prescribed rest and liquids for."

"Cold my ass," House grunted beneath his breath.

"You mean this ass?" Cuddy slid her hand up mere inches to gently cup his right cheek. She gave it a gentle squeeze. "Play nice."

"Fortunately," Hughes couldn't be stopped, "when our nanny became concerned that our four year-old had something worse than a simple case of the sniffles, she brought her to the one place she knew she could trust; the one place that she, as an undergrad here at Princeton, never doubted would be able to give Olivia the best care possible. She brought her to the free clinic at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

House's eyes rolled back in head. Somehow Cuddy could sense their movement and her hand retreated away from House's rump and back towards his thigh. He quickly faced his eyes forward and straightened his posture, rewarded by a soft drag of Cuddy's perfectly manicured nails along his inner thigh. Wilson, who stood in the front row of onlookers, thought he caught House in a long, complying grin.

Hughes rambled on. "Now, my family and I are blessed enough not to need its free services, yet we owe our daughter's life to this clinic. You see, there are many free clinics out there trying to help the uninsured and disadvantaged members of our society. But this clinic isn't simply staffed by medical students and interns or doctor-do-goods on their days off. Thanks to the supervision of the hospital's Dean of Medicine, Doctor Lisa Cuddy," Hughes motioned to Cuddy who stood a few feet to his left, "the free clinic at Princeton Plainsboro is staffed by every doctor who practices there, from the first year pediatrics resident, to the department head of diagnostic medicine."

Cuddy smiled at Hughes, then at House, with pride in her eyes. House nodded back at both of them, giving Cuddy a special squeeze on the ass in what was as much a gesture of respect for her as it was to entertain him. He was pleased to see her take it without an admonishing glare.

"The head of diagnostic medicine is exactly who our daughter saw that day at the free clinic. A world class, infamous physician, Doctor Gregory House," Hughes fixed his eyes on House, a careful warning in his eyes which he took far too much pleasure in giving, "spent less than five minutes with Olivia before deducing what every other doctor she had been to had failed to see. Our little girl was not simply suffering from a severe cold, or even pneumonia. Now, I'll spare you the medical techno babble," Hughes said. "You can all go home and google Tularemia and see for yourselves. It turns out that while my wife and I were away, Olivia had adopted one of the rabbits that frequents our back yard, and it passed on to her an infection that, had Doctor House not been volunteering his time in the free clinic that day, may have done irreversible damage to our daughter's heart. I have no doubt that he saved her life."

The entire assembly erupted in applause, causing House to blush despite himself.

"Enough pomp and flare for you, Doctor House?" Cuddy turned to him. She could tell he was looking about for an escape route.

"More than enough."

"Relax," she leaned in close to him. "You're doing great."

Hughes quieted the crowd. "Now, Megan and I have been wrestling with how best to repay Doctor House and the free clinic that serves so many in our community who are in need of basic medical care," he said, and motioned to an assistant nearby. "On a personal note, we felt that a donation to help keep this exemplary model of what is right about America's health care system going was the least we could do. And while three million dollars is certainly not enough to say thank you for our daughter's life," Hughes took an over-sized check from the assistant and beamed with pride as he placed it in House's hands, "we hope that it will in some small way help those children who, unlike our daughter, rely exclusively on the good work of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital's free Clinic and all her dedicated staff."

The crowd once more erupted in applause, allowing House to smile amiably while slipping a quiet, "Oh, please," in Cuddy's ear. He pushed for her to hold on to the oversized check, but she refused.

"I'm holding out for the account transfer confirmation," she told him coyly.

"Just as well. You might need your hands free for the real show," he wiggled a suggestive eyebrow at her.

As if cued by House, Hughes spoke up again. "But tonight would not be a celebration if all that my wife and I could offer in thanks for our daughter's life was simply a check. It has become painfully and personally clear to both of us these past months that the American system of health care is broken."

"Here we go," House said in an I-told-you-so tenor.

"Shut up, House," Cuddy shot quietly back at him.

"Our health care system is the most expensive of any in the world," Hughes went on, building up to his big finish. "And yet we have worse mortality and standard of living rates than many developing nations. Surely, money cannot be the only answer to solving the disparities we see every day in the faces of parents who must choose food over life-saving medication for their children. Or the elderly woman who could have lived to see her grandchildren play if only her insurance had covered the physical therapy and not just the hip replacement she so desperately needed to maintain an active, healthy quality of life."

"Don't say it House," Cuddy warned quietly.

"What?" House responded innocently. "I would never insinuate that this millionaire in a monkey suit hadn't gazed upon the faces of the poor and needy, wheezing and struggling to walk while working on a minimum wage budget." Cuddy stared directly at him. "I wouldn't," House repeated.

Hughes was far more interested in the big finish than in their hushed banter. "In a country where we talk about health care reform being a top national priority, there are small pockets of people who are challenging the system and forging new models of care that seek to give every American the basic right to quality health care. The free clinic at Princeton Plainsboro is just one of these rays of hope, and the one that saved my daughter, even though she was born into privilege. How many children, how many people, are we willing to let suffer because they were not born into such privilege? How many dollars are we willing to spend treating conditions that could have been prevented for pennies on the dollar if only everyone had equal access to quality medical care? This is the question my wife and I have been struggling to answer in the aftermath of what was almost a parent's worst nightmare.

"And so, this evening, along with celebrating those who kept our precious daughter at our side," he paused for effect, "I am announcing my candidacy for the senate seat of New Jersey."

"Can we go now?" House pleaded as the guests and media simultaneously cheered and begged questions. He desperately wished his hands were free of the giant check so he could go back to tracing lines over Cuddy's soft sway back.

"And it is my pledge to you," Hughes said above the dull roar, "that the common trappings of high office will not stand in the way of my promise to you and to the people of New Jersey and the rest of this great nation; that I will devote my full energies to bringing about the health care reform that this country so desperately needs. It may start with small clinics and dedicated, selfless health professionals." Cuddy grabbed House's ass once more in an effort to stifle his mocking cries. "But their efforts and those of so many more around this great state will help to lead us to a health care revolution that can light the way for the rest of America to follow.

"Thank you, thank you for your generous support. God bless the State of New Jersey and God bless America."

Flashes went off in blinding rhythms as Hughes reached for House's hand. "Careful," House said, shaking with Hughes, barely audible above the commotion. "All these lights are bound to set off a seizure disorder."

Hughes just chuckled. "I guess it's a good thing there are so many doctors here tonight, then."

"Oh, you," House flashed what appeared to be an amiable, endorsing smile. "You think of everything."

"Well, almost everything," Hughes replied, releasing House's hand and reaching for Cuddy's. "The moment I get stuck, I'll be sure to call the one man who proudly admits to knowing the next step in solving almost any problem."

Hughes's eyes dug into House with daggers and Cuddy prayed that he could hold out a moment longer. "I can't thank you enough for the generous donation," she took over the formalities before their pissing match could gain any speed. "I truly hope you find a way to make a difference."

Hughes let his eyes drop from House to Cuddy. "It's my pleasure, Doctor Cuddy. And I appreciate your support." Cuddy could feel House fighting a growl. "Thank you again, for allowing me to show my gratitude."

House watched as Hughes thanked Cuddy for the use, or rather abuse, of the free clinic in launching his campaign. She had been pleasant as she expressed her appreciation for the large sum House now held in his hands but had gone quietly stiff at Hughes mention of support, though the would-be-senator didn't seem to notice. Hughes bent and gave Cuddy a final kiss on the wrist before turning to take his wife's hand and bask in the adoration of the crowd.

It only took a second once Hughes had stepped forward and turned his back to them for Cuddy to say, "Let's get the hell out of here." She graciously but deliberately retreated down the steps to the cleared path in front of the porch, leaving an amused House to follow behind with a large check and fabulous view as she retreated.

Chapter Text

House followed Cuddy into his apartment, leaning the fat, fake check against the wall. He discarded his jacket, tossing it across the nearest chair. Cuddy stepped out of her golden sandals, sinking a few inches as she lined them neatly beside the cardboard money.

"You're not seriously keeping that thing, are you?" she asked.

"Are you kidding?" House stared. "That check is going up in my office. You think anyone would actually believe I got three million for the clinic, legit?"

"I don't think you care if anyone thinks you got three million for the clinic, legitimately or not," Cuddy eyed him.

"You think you know me so well," House said with a sly grin.

"Because I do," Cuddy replied with complete certainty. "The only reason you'd hang on to that is so you can hold it over my head the next time I need your cooperation."

House nodded. She really did know him. "Right you are. Want a drink?"

"God, yes," she said without hesitation.

House maneuvered his way to the side table and poured her a healthy dose of scotch to accompany his own. She thanked him, taking the glass and enjoying a long, slow swallow. Cuddy could feel House admiring her delicate neck, following the contents of her glass from her eager lips past her throat, and down to her belly. In his mind, she was already free of her dress and standing bare in front of him, the scotch following down the surface of her nude body, streaking down between her breasts and pooling in a puddle on her flat tummy, waiting for him to lap every ounce up with his tongue. His eyes were cool and lustful as he sipped and enjoyed the fantasy.

"House!" she pierced his lovely bubble. "Stop undressing me with your eyes."

"Can I undress you with my hands?" he asked. "Because that's really the only way the other thing is ever going to stop happening."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Let your eyes do the undressing." She was rewarded by a juvenile smile.

She took her scotch and retreated to the couch, House on her tail. "Wanna play Monopoly?" she teased, lifting her hem just enough so that she could curl up comfortably at one end.

"Couldn't find it," House told her, taking the opposite side of the sofa. "We could play doctor," he teased back.

"Only if there's a cartoon with a big red nose and an obnoxious buzzer between us."

She liked being able to keep up with House's innuendos. It gave her a twisted sense of pride that she would never admit to, being able to top even House's outrageous remarks.

House took a breath. "I'd suggest poker but all my chips seem to have mysteriously disappeared."

Cuddy chuckled. "Normally, not a problem, House, "she said confidently, “but you've got about three times the amount of clothing on as I do. I'm good, but even I won't play those odds."

"Damn," House cocked an eyebrow. "Only three times? Is that with or without your high-heeled footwear?"

Cuddy gave him a daring smile in answer to his question and took another long sip from her glass. "Guess we missed the news," she changed the subject.

House pulled on his bow tie, letting it hang casually at his neck, and went to work unbuttoning the cuffs on his sleeves. "Always best when you're a part of it," he remarked.

Cuddy watched as House loosened the fabric at his wrists and pushed them up, revealing a good two inches of forearm below the elbow. It amazed her every time a man did that, just how sexy she found that unusual piece of anatomy. Maybe it had something to do with idea of getting down to business, or maybe she connected the strength of a man's hands with her own private desires to feel a certain touch on her body.

Cuddy sighed, propping her head up with her elbow on the arm rest of the sofa. "So, any other ideas?"

House reached over her and retrieved the remote. "There's more to television than the news, you know."

"Fine," Cuddy said, "But no porn."

House found the channel he wanted in mere seconds. "Porn?" he looked at her, wounded. "You call Corazón Medicina porn? I'll have you know, if this show were in English, it would be giving Susan Lucci a run for her daytime Emmys."

"You watch soaps in Spanish, too?" Cuddy asked, though why she was surprised, she didn't know.

"No," House explained. "I watch a soap in Spanish. I am, after all, a snob for daytime in any language."

This made Cuddy laugh. She could feel the scotch warming her insides, her body beginning to relax. "Translate," she asked House with a curious grin.

"Right. Well, our heroes and villains mostly inhabit this amazingly well equipped hospital, despite the poor city slums outside their door."

"Like General Hospital."

"No," House emphasized. "I assure you, these story lines are completely unique," his voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Now, see the guy in the hospital bed?"

Cuddy looked at the scene unfolding in front of her on the television. "The one who needs his bandages changed?" she asked, noting the overuse of fake blood on the actor.

"Yes. That is Miguel. He's in a coma. And that sexy Spanish rose," he pointed to a curvy, raven-haired woman in a white lab coat who now filled the screen, "is Gabriella. Gabriella just found out she's pregnant but she doesn't know if Miguel is the father."

"Wait," Cuddy stopped him. "Miguel is her husband or her patient?"

"Neither," House told her. "Gabriella is his boss. Miguel was a one night stand after he lost a patient. Pity sex."

"She is not his boss, House," Cuddy said, shaking her head at his attempt to impose their working relationship onto the fictional characters.

"Hey, young career-driven, incredibly babe-a-licous women of any ethnicity can rise to the heights of hospital administration," House shot back.

"Fine," Cuddy conceded. "So besides Miguel, who else is in the running for the father?"

"Him."

They watched as the camera panned back and a ruggedly handsome man in scrubs entered, pulling Gabriella into his arms. Sé que usted no lo ama, he whispered passionately in Gabriella's ear. Usted no sabe cuáles es el amor, Gabriella fought to break free.

"Who is that guy?" Cuddy asked.

"That is Cruz, world-famous neurosurgeon and Miguel's BFF. That is, until Miguel wakes up and finds out that Gabriella has been carrying on a torrid love affair with Cruz for years, dashing all hopes Miguel ever had of turning their one night stand into a fairytale romance."

Cuddy glared at House. "Cruz? Seriously, his name is Cruz?"

"Hand to God," he answered and raised one hand quickly up towards the heavens.

"What did they say?" Cuddy asked, turning back to the drama.

"Uh, basic stuff," House told her. "You don't love him, you don't know what love is, I won't lose you, get your hands off of me . . ." House trailed off as they began to catch up.

No cuido qué sucedió entre usted, Cruz said. "He doesn't care that she fucked his best friend's brains out," House said to Cuddy.

"He did not say that," Cuddy shook her head. "Even I can swear in Spanish."

"Loose translation."

Cuddy laughed, stretching her legs out on the sofa. "Does Cruz know she's pregnant?"

House hid a satisfied grin at Cuddy's growing fascination with the characters on his television, and at the delicately painted toes that crept closer to his reach. "Cruz found her lab report last week," House said. "Though, in soap time, we're probably talking more like last night."

"Wait. Now what?" Gabriella had just given Cruz a firm slap.

"I believe Cruz just implied that Gabriella would never leave him and their hot, steamy love behind for a guy who can't possibly please her," House paraphrased. "Harsh words for your best bud there, Cruz!" he spoke as if the characters could actually hear him.

Usted puede tener mi corazón. Pero llevo a su nino, Gabriella said as the music swelled.

"You have my heart. But I carry his child," House translated with melodramatic flare as the show went to commercial.

"You're kidding me," Cuddy raised her voice at the television. "She's not going to tell him that he could be her baby's father?"

"I'm sure it will all be sorted out sometime next year, when Gabriella's baby has magically aged to about six and needs a bone marrow transplant that only her real daddy can give her," House summed up.

"You're right," Cuddy looked at House. "This is the most original plot line ever." She was trying not to laugh, which pushed her small feet up against House's side.

"Good God, woman!" House exclaimed as she brushed up against his arm. "Your feet are freezing!"

Without waiting for permission, he wrapped his hands around the nearest foot and began to massage it gently. Cuddy relented as he straightened one leg in his lap and went to work on the other. She sighed contently as he worked from the balls of her feet up.

"Are your calves always so tight?" House asked clinically.

"Hmm." Cuddy kept her eyes closed as she answered. "You try walking around in two inch heels all day and see how stiff your legs get."

"Right," House said, less clinically now. "Because missing thigh muscle and a cane couldn't possibly cause pain and stiffness in the legs."

Cuddy's eyes fluttered open. "I don't take narcotics to compensate," she countered.

A glint appeared in House's eyes. "Touché," he said, continuing his work on the other foot. "Still," he continued after a moment, "if the muscles in your legs are this tight, I can only imagine the knots you've worked into that lovely bare back of yours."

"House," Cuddy warned.

"I've got an idea," he said and gently pushed her legs back. Standing, he hobbled quickly down the hall.

"House!" Cuddy warned more sternly.

"You really do need to relax," he returned to the living room with a large bottle of lotion in one hand.

"I was plenty relaxed with the foot massage," she told him.

"Then think about how relaxed you'll be after I'm done with the rest of you," he said with a happy grin. Taking his previous seat on the sofa he twisted his body sideways, killing the TV set with the remote. Pouring a generous amount of lotion, he began to warm the cream between his hands. When he looked up, she was still facing him, determined not to give him access to her aching neck and back. "I'm trying to make you more comfortable, not get fresh," House stared intently at her. "Turn around."

Cuddy broke her suspicious stare and turned her back to House. It had been a long time since she'd had a massage, professional or otherwise, and her body desperately wanted to submit. It was House, after all, who had promised nothing would happen that night, nothing that she didn't want to happen. A massage was perfectly innocent and an excellent way to pass the time.

"Scoot closer," House instructed, and she settled in where his hands led her. He lightly brushed away the curls at her neck and pushed aside the delicate material that semi-covered her back by slipping a capped sleeve mere millimeters off the shoulder. Admiring her fully exposed back, from nape to nape, he placed a hand on either side of her and began to work his palms into the tense muscles that supported her spine. He smiled to himself as her head fell forward with an appreciative moan.

"This has got to be the best dress ever," House said with his full grin apparent in his tone.

"House," Cuddy muttered, leaning forward as he worked further down her back. "Shut up."

Cuddy let out another approving sigh, silencing House willingly for the rest of the hour.

"Pizza is here!" House announced, tossing a hot and greasy box onto the kitchen counter.

Cuddy's voice answered from down the hall. "I'll be out in a minute."

She had refused to risk tomato sauce on her dress. Kicking herself for not bringing a change of clothes, she'd retreated to House's closet in search of something more comfortable. Though covering her top half had not proven to be a problem, it seemed the man owned no sweat pants, or even a pair of scrubs, that had a tie waist small enough to cinch around her tiny waist. Length she could have easily dealt with, for he was much taller, but legs could be cuffed. But it made no difference if she was drowning in excess material at her feet if she couldn't get anything to stay put at her waist.

Digging into the last drawer of the dresser, a familiar emblem caught her eye. Pulling the tee shirt from its crumpled corner, she shook it out. Unfolding the oversized navy tee, she smiled and ran a finger over the large golden 'M' embossed on its front. The wolverine attacking from behind had a fierceness to its eyes that was reflected in her own.

Holding the Michigan tee up to her shoulders, she checked the length at which it would fall on her body. The shirt was oversized, even for House, and ended just at her knees. It was more modest than any of her other options and more importantly, she felt her comfort level rise just holding it. Michigan was common ground, without the last twenty years of history attached to it. It leveled the playing field somewhat, at least in her mind.

"It's getting cold!" she heard House taunt her from the kitchen.

"So close the lid!" he heard her call back. Looking up curiously, he confirmed what his ears told him, that she was still in the bedroom, and proceeded to fold the top of the pizza box back over.

He smiled, genuinely. For all the insults and injury he'd laid on her over the years, Cuddy still fought back. She didn't allow him to control her, though he liked to insinuate to her and anyone else who would listen that she had and always would be putty in his hands. He knew that the amount of abuse she tolerated from him was not out of some dreamy-eyed worship complex, the kind he'd found useful, especially with women, when he was younger, but had grown to find infinitely boring and unattractive.

He crept silently down the hallway to where his door stood open less than a foot, enough, she had to know, that he would be able to see her if he so chose.

House watched her pull the decorative comb from her hair, placing it and the hair pins that accompanied it inside the clutch she'd been carrying that night. Flipping her head over in one quick, graceful motion, she ran her fingers through her chocolate waves, releasing the hold of that single side which had been in a full, elaborate curl all evening. Tossing her head up, she glanced in the mirror on top of his bureau, rearranging strands here and there until she was satisfied.

House took a step closer to the door that had been left slightly a jar, following her as she moved closer to the end of his bed, her back turned to him. He wet his lips as she slid the single strap off her freckled shoulder, following down the line at the side of her body with her delicate fingers to the hidden zipper at the waist. That slid easily open as well, loosening at the hips. Bending forward ever so slightly, she removed the hand that had been holding the bodice in place and wiggled free of the gown, letting the red silk fall into a puddle at her ankles.

Watching Cuddy step out of the dress, exposed completely to him from behind, House had to remind himself to breathe. A thin strip of black lace stretched below her hips and he could see the beginnings of a curve to one breast from where he stood. She was slipping a tee shirt on over her head, bending to pick the shrugged off dress from the floor.

Quickly he turned and made his way back to kitchen, desperately searching for something to cover the growing bulge in his pants.

When Cuddy had finished laying her dress out neatly over the closet door, she smoothed the cotton against her body, and smiled at what House's expression would be when she came out for pizza in his old college tee shirt. He'd never held back his admiration of her body and though she protested in public, it always made her feel sexy and empowered to hear him call attention to her assets. Compliments were always appreciated, but a compliment from House, in any form, was precious because he did not waste his time with hollow gestures. When he looked at her, appreciated her, she knew she was beautiful.

She appeared wide-eyed and flirtatious in the kitchen a moment later, finding House intently studying the contents of his fridge.

"Want a beer?" he asked her without ever looking up.

Cuddy tip-toed closer, leaning on the door between them, and peered into the fridge. She chuckled. "Something tells me that grapefruit juice would not go well with pizza."

"I'll take that as a yes," House nodded and came out with two bottles. The door now closed, he had nowhere else to look but at her.

Cuddy watched as he gaped intently, starting at her bare feet and making his way up to the hem that fell just above her knees, then over the rest her body and finally to her eyes, anxious for his reaction.

House stepped back, set the beers on the counter, grinned and said, "Go Blue."

Cuddy's smile widened and she let out a giggle.

"Seriously," House said, his eyes not moving from her body, "if I had known this was going to happen, I'd have bought pom-poms to go with."

Cuddy reached over and popped the top off a bottle of beer. "Hail! To the victors valiant," she toasted from the school's fight song.

"Hail! To the conquering heroes," House tipped his bottle against hers. He couldn't help but show genuine amusement as she swallowed her beer wearing the Michigan tee shirt he'd refused to put on since the football team's 2004 Rose Bowl loss. "Wear just that to the next game and maybe we'll get our glory days back."

"That'll happen," Cuddy said with a roll of the eyes. She grabbed the paper towels and the pizza box off the counter and headed back to the sofa. House followed.

She grabbed a slice and took a healthy bite. A moment later, the bite was followed by a small frown. "There's pineapple on this," Cuddy swallowed, looking disappointed.

"You said to get whatever I wanted," House replied, another piece disappearing.

"I didn't realize your taste in pizza toppings was so poor," she scolded. "Pineapple is a fruit and the only thing baked fruit should be on is pie. Regular pie, not pizza pie."

"Tomatoes are fruit," House countered. "They're all over the pizza and you don't seem to mind."

"When they start making pizza with pineapple instead of tomato sauce, we'll revisit the argument," Cuddy finished her point and began to pick at the fruit. "In the meantime," she dumped a small pile of yellow chunks onto the slice he held, "extra pineapple for you."

"Excellent," House simply smiled and took an even larger bite.

A few minutes passed while they hungrily devoured their late night snack and chased it with beer. House rambled on about the lack of food at the gala, wishing people would give up on serving baby quiche and offer little pigs in a blanket instead. He stopped short of criticizing the lack of creativity on the part of the bar staff when he noticed Cuddy staring at him intently.

Wiping the grease off her fingers from the last slice of pizza, she reached for her beer.

"You're a breast man?" Cuddy asked House to confirm.

His mouth fell open, thrown off by her sudden question. Better to answer with a question of his own, he thought. "Is that an invitation?" he tossed aside his slice to free up his hands.

Cuddy smiled and shook her head. "No, that was not an invitation." She watched as House gave her his desperately disappointed look. "Just answer the damn question."

"Yes, I'm a boob man. Though, to be fair, what guy isn't? Unless he's into guys, but then, I suppose men have breasts, too."

Cuddy interrupted him before she could be subjected to a diatribe of horror stories of House's encounters with man boobs. "So as a boob man," she used his slang, "would you say, on the whole, men find bigger breasts sexier, even when they're obviously not real?"

House squinted. "Don't worry," he assured her. "Yours are just the right size."

"I know," she said in her most sultry voice.

House tried not to choke on his beer. Cuddy laughed.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with the thirty-six double Ds on display earlier, would it?" he thought back fondly on the bouncing boobs Wilson had ogled earlier. "No way are those fun bags a hundred percent natural."

"So, as a breast man, would you say that men choose quantity over quality in the fun bags department?" She looked at him expectantly.

This wasn't a trick question, House knew. She was sitting on his sofa, wearing his ratty old tee shirt, asking about breasts. The corner of his mouth turned up as he thought of all the uninhibited conversations they'd had over the years. They were doctors and discussions of biology and anatomy were certain to come up, but Lisa Cuddy had never been a prude when it came to sexuality. She owned hers the way most people hid theirs. In a world where Gregory House spent most of his days looking for what people hid from him, her candid approach to life allowed a level of respect House found comfortable and alluring.

"Quantity over quality?" House restated, admiring her for asking the question. "As a boob man, I can honestly say, natural is almost always the way to go."

"Really?" she cocked an eyebrow.

"Sure," House answered. "Look, I'm not going to deny that most of the time a C cup is going to catch the eye a little more than a B cup. But," he said, his mind floating with visions of breasts, "as with most things in life, it's not what you've got but how you use it that makes the real difference. Natural is way better." He leaned forward and looked at Cuddy wistfully. "Especially when you show off a little of what you've got."

Cuddy chuckled. "Only a little?"

"Too much and the fantasy is either never going to come true or it already has."

Cuddy nodded. "So I should stick with form-fitting sweaters and blouses that show a little cleavage?" she teased.

House leaned back, taking a deep breath. "Actually, this tee shirt look is good on you. Though that may be because it's mine. Not much sexier than a beautiful woman wearing your shirt."

He saw her blush. Not an embarrassed or angry flush of red to her cheeks but a flattered dusting of pink that reached down to her neck and touched her ears. House felt his own face begin to warm just watching her.

"Tell you what," he said, looking for something to distract him. "The next time a donor wants to use the hospital to launch his political career, sign us up for Rock the Vote and pass on the money. I'll make sure you get an extra small tee shirt," Cuddy snickered, "and I'll get an extra, extra large. Then, after my totally awesome guitar solo, you can follow me home and try mine on for size."

Cuddy smirked. "I'll keep that in mind." Setting down her empty bottle, she looked up at the guitar hanging from the wall next to the piano. "Play me something," she challenged him.

"Love to," House told her, "but the neighbors called the police on me last time I tried to strum a tune after midnight."

"So don't use the amplifier," Cuddy suggested.

He stood and made his way to the piano bench. "I'll use the piano instead. It has a special peddle just for dampening the noise." He pointed beneath the baby grand, like she was a student at her first music lesson.

Cuddy disregarded his smug taunting. "Fine."

"Any requests?" he asked as his fingers graced the keys softly.

Putting each note together in her head as he played, Cuddy sighed. She pictured Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman at the piano in classic black and white. She began to wonder if a kiss really was just a kiss. Closing her eyes, Cuddy thought back to her kiss with House and she let a smile creep up. No, she decided.

"Should I play it again, Sam?" House asked as he finished. Looking over his shoulder at Cuddy's serene expression, he wished for a classic fedora.

She opened her eyes. "Try something a little less sentimental," she suggested, pushing up from her seat and crossing the room to the piano.

"Right," House said, staring at her bare feet on his hardwood floors. "How about this one?"

Both hands came down hard on several familiar chords. He looked up at her amused grin and decided to go for broke. "You make me feel like a natural woman," he crooned.

She laughed. "I'm so glad you feel that way."

House couldn't help but genuinely smile back. He slid away from the middle of the bench, allowing room for Cuddy beside him. She took the invitation, facing away from the piano. She wanted to be able to see him play without having him taunt her to contribute. No one needed to hear her pick out chopsticks.

"What else you got?" she asked with a sparkle in her eye.

He felt her bare leg brush up against him, the heat of her body encroaching on his own. He had to shut his eyes to keep from staring at her but the grin never left his lips. His mind searched a moment then gave her a confident nod.

It started slow, finding a quicker tempo before retreating back to a softer, jazzy sort of pace.

Crazy, Cuddy could hear her mother singing along to the Patsy Cline record she'd played over and over while she was growing up. I'm crazy for feeling so lonely.

House leaned in to melody. Worry, why do I let myself worry?

A deep sigh escaped her lips as he continued to play. Crazy for thinking that my love could hold you. She turned to admire his hands on the keys. I'm crazy for trying and crazy for crying.

House held the notes, finding Cuddy's eyes, which she met fearlessly. And I'm crazy for loving you.

Cuddy smiled tenderly as House finished the final notes of the song. It was a perfect fit, she thought, for their Crazy and sometimes narcissistic relationship.

When he'd finished the last few notes, House lifted his fingers from the keys and rested them in his lap. He was silent, staring at his own hands, fumbling for words. He had asked her for time and he felt foolish for wasting it now that she was here. He found himself desperately searching for a metaphor to explain it all.

"House?" Cuddy prompted him after a long, thick silence.

He raised his head but did not turn to meet her gaze. "Hmm?"

She could see that he was trying but she had questions of her own. "You traded twelve months of no clinic duty: no over-reactive parents, kids with the sniffles, men and women who ought to know better needing swabs for discrete rashes," she hit some of the highlights of what she knew particularly annoyed him. "You traded it all for a few hours alone with me. Why?"

There was the question, the one he'd been trying to find a way to answer for longer than even he realized. But now that it was asked, he found himself shrugging, not to dismiss the question but to throw off the nerves that kept him from answering.

"Giving up clinic duty doesn't accomplish what I want," he heard himself say.

Cuddy shook her head slowly. She didn't understand. "Which is?" she gently encouraged him.

He took a breath and turned so that he could see every line and curve of her face. "Time," he said. Seeing her eyes desperately searching for meaning, he looked urgently for words that would make sense. "As much as I detest wasting my skills on booboos and unwanted consequences of other people's indiscretions, not having to do clinic hours means not having to avoid clinic hours, which defeats the entire purpose." He stopped before finishing his answer to catch his breath. "That purpose being to spend time with you."

Cuddy's mouth dropped open. House had just revealed something significant to her, something personal and obviously difficult for him to share. But she needed more.

"The more I avoid doing my clinic hours," House continued, "the more time I guarantee with you; you yelling at me, threatening me, negotiating with me. Time usually spent just you and me."

Cuddy stared straight ahead. "You wanted time alone with me," she stated. "Why? House, if this is about sex-"

House interrupted. "Why do you assume that my endgame is to sleep with you?" his voice rose an octave with genuine aggravation. "There are lots of things two people can do in five hours alone that doesn't end up in sex." His tone began to soften. "Granted, those activities aren't usually quite as fun."

"So you don't want to have sex with me?" Cuddy turned to challenge him.

"Didn't say that," House responded, letting his eyes wander over her body. "The things I'd like to do to you just with foreplay alone could take up all five hours."

Cuddy kept her eyes fixed on his. His admission may be tinged with arrogance, but she also knew he was sincere. "Fine," she said just as seriously. "If sex isn't you're endgame, what is?"

He searched her, searched his surroundings, searched himself. "I'm not sure," he told her softly. "I just needed time, alone, with you. Time away from arguments over hospital procedure and patient safety. Time to just . . ." His voice trailed off, looking for something, anything he could say to her that was true.

She looked almost lovingly into his desperate eyes. "Time to just be?" she asked, helping him to find the words he wanted to say.

House hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until he heard her find the answer to his own question; the one he'd been laboring over in his own head for days. He nodded his head, sighed, acknowledging to both himself and to her that she was right. Vulnerability began to sit heavily on his chest and he could no longer look at her.

Cuddy could see him pull away but it only made her smile. If House was nervous it only confirmed that he cared for her. Her. Not just her body but her.

"Most people," Cuddy said, realizing fully that House was not most people, "when they want to spend time with someone, use this crazy thing called dating." She was not mean, maybe a touch sarcastic, but her smile was genuine.

"Yes," House conceded, finding more comfortable footing for a response. "But dating would mean fancy restaurants, mind-numbing small talk, and those awkward moments at the doorstep trying to decide if the evening went well enough that one of us should go in for the kiss." He could feel Cuddy still staring at him with amusement. "We both know how well I do with crowds," he continued, doing his best to debunk her dating suggestion. "You're one of a handful of people I can actually carry on an intelligent conversation with, so by all means, let's spoil that. And I think we've already established that if I went in for the kiss you'd kiss me back. Only question is, do I get in the door?"

She turned away, shaking her head, her smile quickly turning from grin to scowl. "What is it about men that they think they can decide what I do and do not like? What I will and will not do?" Her voice was quickly rising. "What I deserve and what's best for me?" Cuddy spun to face House. "Is there something on the Y chromosome that allows a man to be a better judge of what a woman wants than she is?"

He looked at her, now straddling the piano bench in his tee shirt, intent on getting an answer. He tried to hold back the smile that wanted desperately to be set free but he couldn't help how beautiful he found her when she was demanding. Her eyes filled with even more fire when he failed.

"My entire adult life it's always been, 'You're too good for me, Lisa,' or, 'I don't deserve you, Lisa,' or," she let out an amused and angry laugh, "my personal favorite; 'I can't give you what you want, Lisa.' Do they ever bother to ask me what I want?"

House opened his mouth but thought better of it.

"No, of course they don't," Cuddy vented. "Because if they bothered to ask then maybe they'd have to deal with the possibility that I don't always want fancy restaurants and small talk and goodnight kisses! Sometimes I prefer pizza and beer at home, unoriginal Spanish soap operas, and making it to bedroom without all the drama over where things are going." She stopped at last to take a breath. Every relationship she'd ever had could be summed up in her last few sentences.

She lifted a hand to cover her face, silently pitying herself for unloading on House. But he didn't have a quick retort. He was silent, and when she opened her eyes and pushed the hair off her face, she saw him looking at her with the kindest eyes she'd ever seen. There was an amused grin on his lips, but it wasn't malicious, and it made her smile in spite of herself.

Once Cuddy had smiled, House relaxed, and so did Cuddy. They were both embarrassed and entertained by their neuroses. The thought that they might understand each other's desires better than either had thought had a certain charm about it.

After a minute of sighs, laughter, and exchanging unguarded grins, House said, "You really prefer beer?" with his usual sarcasm.

"Oh, God," Cuddy looked at him. He thought she looked happy. "Well, maybe not the beer," she confessed.

"I'm sure you've heard this before," House began. "As a general rule, guys are idiots when it comes to girls. Especially beautiful, intelligent, feisty girls."

She raised a brow. "Feisty?"

"One of your best qualities." House wiggled his own brow at her.

"Thank you," Cuddy smiled appreciatively.

"You're welcome," House said sincerely.

Cuddy brought her leg back over the bench, House facing the piano, Cuddy facing the room, once again. She pulled at the hem of the tee shirt, stretching it over her thighs as low as it would go. House was afraid to take his eyes off of her, afraid that she might find herself too comfortable next to him and pull away; afraid that he wouldn't have the guts to stop her if she did.

Cuddy could sense his eyes still on her and did not feel the need to blush. She closed her eyes, enjoying the way it felt to be admired by him, smiling at the way his tee shirt rode a little further up her body every time she took a deep breath. She shifted her weight slightly, intending to move closer, and found him reaching around to catch her waist.

House had felt her move next to him. Thinking she was about to stand and retreat to the sofa, he felt a sudden sense of loss. He didn't remember putting his arm around her but was glad his body had acted where his nerve had failed.

He let his hand lie across her stomach, lightly grasping worn cotton between his fingers, feeling the rise and fall of every breath. She felt the heat of his touch and slowly opened her eyes, looking down to where his curled sleeve ended and his arm began, reaching out with long fingers to hold her in place.

Cuddy looked up and found House's eyes waiting for hers. He'd turned slightly, putting his weight on his good leg. His other hand reached up and Cuddy could feel his rough fingers tracing her delicate cheek bone.

Her breath quickened as he gently stroked her face. House knew his own chest was rising and falling more quickly. She seemed to melt under his touch, her willingness to keep her usual walls from forcing him away injecting a sense of confidence into him that was better than any drink or drug. While one hand fell to her naked thigh, the other pushed the hair out her eyes, and he felt her own hand over his heart. He breathed in her scent deeply when she leaned further in.

Cuddy tilted her chin up. Blue on blue, their eyes met again, each one pleading for permission to touch and be touched. His fingers fell against her hair, holding her in place, while House slowly bent to kiss her. Tender and light, his lips touched hers, over and over, proceeding cautiously with each new, small press against her mouth. She let him explore, wander across to her ear and slowly down her neck. She let out an encouraging sigh as he began to make his way back towards her mouth.

Stopping just as he reached her lips, he drew back, pushing his forehead against hers, wanting to crush her under the weight of all the emotion rising up inside, holding back for fear he might hurt her. She could sense hesitation clinging onto his desire. His warm breath fell where his lips had been seconds ago. She tried not to move, tried to will him to come down hard, wet her lips in anticipation. But it was the grip of her hand over his heart, pulling on his shirt, tightening and drawing him closer that broke the dam.

His hesitation fell away, his lips crashing into hers, strong and eager. She opened her mouth, letting herself pull him further into her with the grip on his shirt. She pushed herself up, forcing her own tongue into him, desperate to taste him. Each battled to have the other, lips parting only to envelope another, more passionate kiss. Cuddy continued to pull at his shirt, running her other hand over the back of his neck, urging him down on to her. House held her face against his firmly, the hand he'd placed on her bare thigh now digging into her flesh the way his tongue eagerly pushed into her mouth.

Cuddy moaned, still desperate to kiss him, but in need of air. She took in deep breaths as House suckled on her neck. She let him leave bruises as he burrowed into her skin at the knee and throat, feeling relaxed and empowered. She broke free of his grip only to land across his lap, legs straddling him, resting on the bench, her weight hovering above him.

Her swift change of position had been intended, without thought to his bad thigh muscle, and she let him see it. House caught the glimmer of desire in her eyes and found her hips, enthusiastically pressing their bodies together. She buried her hands into his hair and back, showing approval.

"House?" she groaned as he returned to her neck.

"Mmm?" he moaned against her.

She kissed lightly behind his ear, pausing over it to whisper. "What you said," her thought was punctuated with sighs and kisses. "The things you wanted to do to me," she felt his hands slip further up her body. "Five hours of foreplay . . ."

She caught him in a passionate kiss before he could speak. House groaned her name and she turned her attention to the opposite ear this time. "You have just over two hours."

Chapter Text

Monday morning came early and bright. Cuddy was surprised to see House's motorcycle already parked in front of the hospital when she arrived at work, an extra skip in her step as she breathed in the cool morning air.

Entering the main lobby that held her newly well-funded clinic on one side and her office on the other, she said her good mornings to the handful of nurses and receptionists staffing the front desk.

"Thank you," she said as one of the nurses handed off a small pile patient files, mail, and paperwork. Curious, she asked, "Does Doctor House have a new case?"

"Not that I know of," the nurse told her. "But he was in before me and my shift started at seven."

"Huh," Cuddy wondered what he was up to now. Perhaps hanging his giant check? She grinned at that thought and excused herself to her office.

Once inside, she placed her brief case beside the desk and her morning pile of paperwork on a nearby chair. Shrugging off her business jacket, she retrieved her white coat from its hook by the door. She then moved quickly back to her desk to silence her ringing phone.

"Hello?" she spoke.

"Good morning, Doctor Cuddy." House's voice made her smile. "You sound breathless already."

"I was trying to get to my phone, you idiot," she laughed. "I just walked in the door. Is there something you wanted or are you calling for the hell of it?"

She could hear him smiling at the other end of the line. "Actually, I was about to send one of my team out for cappuccinos. Extra foam. Interested?"

She gave him a throaty laugh. "If you don't have a patient, Doctor House, I'm sure I could find a few for you down in the clinic."

"Oops," House faked a cry of impending doom. "Foreman just walked in with the most hideous boil! Gotta go. Wouldn't want it to explode all over my big, cool check."

He dropped the line, leaving Cuddy shaking her head.

Putting the receiver back in place, she noticed a small, square box resting in her chair. She took a quick look around to be sure she was alone then came around to other side of the desk and lifted the box, inspecting it curiously.

There was no card, no hint as to who had placed it there, which made her even more certain it could only have come from House. She held it up to her ear, not sure if she was listening for the ticking of a time bomb or a soft rustle that would give her a clue to the box's contents. Finally, she tugged on the red bow and slowly lifted the lid.

Peering inside, a smile spread across Cuddy's face. She collapsed into the chair, laughing and admiring her new token – a shiny Monopoly boot.