Cuddy's coming off a sixteen-hour shift and another four of paperwork and the only thing she wants is to fall into her own bed before she gets called back to the hospital to do it all again. With each step, her feet are lecturing her that even though those three-inch heels are the perfect shade of red and go just so with her skirt, they are not meant to be worn without a break for a day that will not end. It's three in the morning and the hospital's about as peaceful as it ever gets. The nurses' station is a small pool of light and conversation at one end of the hall, but other than that the fifth floor is dim and quiet. Even the janitors are asleep, leaning on their mops.

And there are lights on in the infectious disease departmental office.

Cuddy pauses. The door is slightly ajar, and the brighter light is streaming out into the hallway. It's none of her business, but she did see Dr. Nguyen leaving at some decent hour well before midnight. No one should be there now. Cuddy glances back towards the nurses' station and thinks about calling security, but feels silly almost as soon as she considers it. A case came in and the on-call doctor was paged, that's all. She's happy to ignore the whole situation--until she hears the singing.

She sighs at herself for being curious enough to forget that she needs sleep, and takes the last few steps to look in.

Dr. House is hunched over Dr. Nguyen's desk, eyes closed, drumming his fingers against the wood. He's wearing headphones that are connected to a discman sitting on the blotter in front of him. His eyes are closed and he's crooning softly. His voice is good, though he's mumbling the words too much for her to tell what the song is. There's a bottle of Scotch sitting at his elbow. The cap's off and it's clearly been a while since the bottle was full.

"Working late?" she asks sardonically.

House raises his eyebrows but his eyes stay closed, and he doesn't stop tapping his fingers along the edge of the desk. "Doctor Cuddy," he says.

Somehow, she's not at all surprised that he knows it's her. The tone of his voice invites her in, and Cuddy carefully closes the office door before crossing the room to stand in front of him. She glances again at the Scotch. "Do you enjoy being a lawsuit waiting to happen?"

"Who says I'm waiting?" he asks. "Deposition was this morning. Wait, this is the good part." The tapping stops and now he's playing air guitar, his left hand running through the chords, his right picking out an intricate fingering over his stomach. He nods along to the rhythm. He slams into the drum part, humming a bit, and then, with a last smash of an imaginary cymbal, he leans forward and presses stop on the discman. He snatches the headphones off his head and stands up. He steps around the desk and looks at her for the first time, slowly and deliberately. "Love the shoes," he says.

It's a compliment she's been waiting to hear all day, but she doesn't so much as blink, and she's not disappointed when he adds, "Very sexy, but also professional--if we're talking about the oldest profession in the world."

She ignores him--it's the best strategy she's found so far in dealing with him--and takes in the state of the office. There are files strewn everywhere, and reference texts. "Tough case?" she asks. She tilts her head to read a heading and says, "Erdheim-Chester's? That's rare."

"Nope." He slams the book closed, almost catching her fingers between the covers. He's very close, and he's enjoying towering over her. Cuddy refuses to back off. He gives in first. "Bad date," he explains, grinning at her. "You'd think the people you meet at strip clubs would be a bit more accommodating."

Cuddy gives him a pained smile. "Somehow I don't think they see it that way."

"Oh, not the employees," he says. "Lookee but no touchee. I never proposition the help."

"Really," Cuddy says wryly, thinking of horny men in business suits and truckers on layover. "The patrons are more your style?"

"Hmm," he answers, looking down at her, eyes intent. "Not tonight."

Cuddy breathes in sharply. House is too close not to notice. She glances over her shoulder at the door, and he follows her gaze. "Nobody here but us chickens," he says in a low voice. She can smell the alcohol on his breath.

"You're drunk," she says.

He nods to the bottle. "You can catch up if you need plausible deniability."

Cuddy raises an eyebrow. "I don't think so."

"Good," he says, and steps into her space. Cuddy's heart steps up to double-time. He's wearing a t-shirt and jeans, and both are pleasantly tight. She can't deny that she's thought about this, but then, it's obvious that he can't deny it either. He's studying her, wary and watchful, and she knows he's sober enough to back off if she says no. The only problem is that she doesn't know if she wants to. House lets the pause linger, and she doesn't move to step back. When she looks into his face, his eyes are unfocused and analytical, as if he's a million miles away. Cuddy takes a breath. She gets it.

"House," she says, her voice dripping with seduction. She moves forward and rests her hand on his forearm--his very agreeably muscled forearm, which is irrelevant but still nice. She leans in to whisper, "Who is she?"

His face is perfectly blank when he asks, "Who?" That's exactly what gives him away.

Cuddy smiles. "Your lady friend from the strip club," she says. "Or maybe the lawyer from the deposition this morning."

His eyes widen as if he's been horse-kicked in the sternum, and Cuddy feels incredulous laughter bubbling up. She wants to bury her face in his chest and giggle for the rest of eternity. "Oh my God," she says. "It's both, isn't it? She's the same woman."

She half expects him to stand on his dignity and tell her there's no one. Instead, he's nearly growling when he says, "She thinks the fact that he refused treatment means I shouldn't have saved his moronic life. Probably she was looking out for the gene pool."

Cuddy snickers. "Oh, you've got it bad."

"I have got nothing."

"You're blushing."

"I never blush."

"You're in love," she teases. "Did you follow her to the stripper bar? Were you hoping she worked there?"

"The mood is ruined," he mutters. "The shoes lied."

"You know you want to see her again," Cuddy says. "Call her and apologize."

"Apologize for what?" he demands. Cuddy only stares at him until he whines, "I'm not going to and you can't make me."

Cuddy rolls her eyes. "Good night, House." She twirls on her heels and walks out.

Six days later, Stacy has moved in, and House is the closest thing to happy Cuddy's ever seen. She's pretty sure she's not disappointed, even when she catches them flinging barbs across the clinic like love-notes.

"Get a room," she orders.

House grins at Stacy, nods to Exam One, and quirks an eyebrow. Stacy shoots him down and leaves in a laughing huff. House shakes his head mournfully and snorts, "Women." He turns to Cuddy and adds, "You know what I mean." But he smiles as he leaves, and behind the joke, she can see he's serious.

It's the closest he'll come to saying thank you, so Cuddy refuses to regret a thing.

Three days after Cuddy makes Dean of Medicine, when she still has to suppress the part of herself that wants to jump and crow every time she reads her name on the door, she walks into her office and finds House sitting behind her desk. His runners are propped up on her files, and he's twiddling her brass nameplate in his hands. Cuddy's never been less surprised that Davidson retired with chronic ulcers.

House salutes her with the nameplate and then tosses it on the desk. "Congratulations."

Cuddy walks across her office as if she isn't seething at his intrusion, and yanks the stack of folders out from under his feet. This once, she doesn't feel guilty when he can't hide his wince. "You're a bit late for the celebration," she says.

"Oh, I was there." House tips his head back in a fond reverie. "The lemon cake was to die for. The punch was lacking something, though."

Cuddy rolls her eyes. "Which you were generous enough to provide."

House smiles beatifically. "Who says I don't give back to the community?"

"Not unlike Dr. O'Neil has to, now that he's been sentenced after his DUI." She sets the paperwork on top of a filing cabinet.

"It's as if his tastebuds have been totally desensitized to cheap vodka by years of alcoholism," House marvels. He points at Cuddy. "Fire him before he costs you more in lawsuits than you can spend at Frederick's online in a year."

"Funny, that's what Davidson suggested," Cuddy says. "Oh, except he was talking about some other doctor. I think nephrology came into it somewhere."

House's jaw drops and his eyes widen. "Really? You're finally ridding me of Patil? I don't know how I'll thank you." He frowns a bit, considering. "I'm thinking muffin basket, but offering you your first chance to really crack the whip might mean more."

There's half an hour left until Cuddy's first board meeting as chair. If she so much as glances at her watch, House will chain himself to her desk and throw a tantrum rather than leave. "I am not firing Dr. Patil," she says dryly. "Then you wouldn't be able to usurp the department in a bloody coup, and I wouldn't be able to live with the whining."

"And idiocy everywhere is safe for another day." House shakes his head sadly. "You disappoint me, Cuddy."

"What the hell did you do to him, anyway?" Cuddy asks despite herself. She does not need to be having this conversation right now, but: "He complains about you more than your patients do."

"I might once have treated and discharged all his cases in an afternoon," House says. He settles back in her chair again, testing its springs, and folds his hands behind his head. He's practically oozing smugness.

Cuddy needs nothing more than to have him gone, but the moment she gives him an order and he disobeys it, the pattern will be set. She's not going to be another Davidson. "General Hospital was a rerun that day?" she asks, leaning back against the cabinet. She's wearing the perfect skirt for the maneuver.

House's eyes flicker to her legs for a second before he answers. "Bite your tongue, woman. General Hospital is never a rerun."

He could be in here all day. Cuddy vows that she is not going to leave him alone with her things when she goes to the board meeting. "House, you can't go around diagnosing other doctors' caseloads," she says. She can feel a headache coming on.

House nods seriously. "Right. That pesky saving lives thing doctors do just wouldn't have the same heroic quality if we didn't have to slay the beast bureaucracy."

House's job has survived four changes of authority. He revels in regime change like a true revolutionary, one who needs the revolt more than the reformation. Cuddy knows he's boasted about training new deans to his standard, but she is not a pet to be tamed. She crosses her arms and House, entirely predictably, looks straight down her cleavage.

"You want some leeway," she says, and she lets a hint of suggestiveness enter her tone.

"I have leeway," House says, still staring. "It's called tenure."

"You want control." Cuddy moves against the filing cabinet as if she's a cat twining around a beloved scratching post. House has bounced from infectious disease to nephrology more than once, as his department heads lose patience and he takes the bit between his teeth.

He's openly studying her now. There's a trace of a smirk on his face. "I'm better than Patil, and you know it."

Twenty minutes left until the board convenes. If Cuddy can tell them she's managed to rein House in, no matter how briefly, she will cement her place as chair. A little mystery about her methods won't hurt her reputation, either.

"You're a better diagnostician," she agrees, feeding him as much rope as he wants. She shrugs. It took her a long time to really master the shrug, but now that she has, House can't pretend not to notice. "Dr. Patil can be too cautious. You're willing to take risks and they usually pay off." She carefully doesn't say that it's House's attention span, which is about half that of a four-year-old, that limits how long he's willing to put up with his supervisors' bullshit. He starts thinking the grass is a slightly less boring shade of green in his other specialty.

Cuddy doesn't intend to bore him. Three deans have failed to fire him or find a place where he can't disrupt the entire hospital. She hasn't heard that anyone has tried what she's about to.

"So either he's worse or I'm better," House says. "I'm getting some mixed messages, here." His smirk has grown. He taps his fingers on the handle of his cane. He's had it long enough now that he doesn't notice how much he plays with it while he's thinking.

"The only message you're getting is no," Cuddy says. His legs are still propped on her desk, but she ignores them and bends over him, one hand on the edge of her desk, the other on the arm of his chair. Trapping him. Letting him get as distracted as he likes looking at her breasts. As far as she's concerned, at this moment, that's what they're there for. "Most of my paperwork is about you, House. The inventory of every rule you've ignored, side-stepped, or annihilated from orbit. So, strangely, no, I won't be making you head of nephrology."

House opens his mouth, and Cuddy cuts in, "Or infectious disease." Last time Davidson caught House moonlighting, he forbid House from setting foot in infectious disease. The next day the admit desk was buried under a flurry of intricately folded paper planes. House was lofting them from the second storey balcony, aiming them for Dr. Nguyen's head. Each one was a unique bit of origami, and each had a room number and a diagnosis written on the wing.

"But Mom," House says. He's whining like a kid in a candy store, but his eyes are a different kind of playful. "You let Jimmy have his own department."

"Is that what you want, House?" Cuddy's practically purring.

"I hope this isn't an either/or question," House mutters. His hand on his cane tenses. She knows he doesn't have a clue whether or not to reach out and touch.

"I need you to behave," Cuddy says. She leans her hand on his bicep and moves closer. "And there's only one way to make you behave, isn't there?"

"Someone signed me up for the naughty administrix clinical trial, didn't they?" he says. "I don't want to invalidate the study, but I'm pretty sure I didn't get the placebo."

They're close enough now that Cuddy can watch his eyes darken. His respiration is up, too. She smiles, gratified, and then reaches for a chart on her desk and slaps it into his chest so hard that the chair rolls back from the desk. House has to lift his legs down to keep his balance. When he gets control of the chair, he eyes her suspiciously for a second. Cuddy raises an eyebrow and nods at the chart. House flips it open.

And says, "Hmm." His lips go slack and he turns the page. The history alone goes back three years. Cuddy has just disappeared entirely from his consideration.

She recites from memory, "Ataxia, neuralgia, limited kidney function, and...oh, what was that last one? Intermittent aphasia."

"MS," House says promptly.

"Myelinization hasn't been affected."

House frowns. "Lupus."

"ANA is negative."

"Run it again."

Cuddy smiles sweetly. "No."

"You know what it is."

"Not yet."

"Then give me the case."

"When you have your board certification in diagnostics," Cuddy says, "and a grant that will cover at least four salaries."

House looks up sharply. "What's the extra for? Does my ho need some bling?"

Cuddy ignores him. "This is a teaching hospital. You'll be hiring three fellows." She pulls the file out of his hands. "Besides, I know you wouldn't be happy without minions to do the dirty work."

House considers her, half-smiling, as if he suspects that she's stringing him along. "And meanwhile, the patient suffers. No one can figure out what she's got. She gets depressed. Mixes her meds, which don't alleviate her symptoms, but they sure do pack a whallop when she's too sad to get out of bed."

"She's managed for three years," Cuddy says. "If you're good, I'll let you play the next time she complains of a flare-up."

"You're using a patient to keep me in line."

"Yes," Cuddy says.

"Not, for instance, any sort of sexual favours."

"Hmm. No."

House's eyes narrow. "Nice," he says finally.

"I thought so," Cuddy says. "Should I tell the board you're accepting the position?"

House lifts his cane and points it at her. "You were a lot more fun before you got your claws into Davidson and sucked his lifeforce out."

"Yeah," Cuddy says. "I'm pretty sure that was you." She pulls out a document, drops a pen on it, and taps her finger on the last line.

House takes the pen. "Presumptive wench," he says.

"Sign," she answers.

With a shrug, he does, and then he climbs to his feet. He passes by her as closely as he can on his way to the door, and leans his weight heavily on his cane until she can feel his breath against her ear. "Don't worry, I'll take a raincheck on the other position offered," he murmurs.

Cuddy isn't the brain-dead heroine of a romance novel. She doesn't let her eyes drift closed, and she definitely doesn't shiver. She eyes the ceiling as though hoping that an attentive God is cataloguing all the trials she endures, and waits for House to limp his way back into clinic. Where, she's certain, he'll pull out his Gameboy and proceed to ignore patients for the rest of the afternoon.

This once, she doesn't care. She makes it to the board meeting on time, with the proposal for creating the Department of Diagnostics already drawn up. Everyone, from Wilson on down, boggles at House's signature, and Cuddy smiles brightly. She is a skilled administrator. She's the person they want watching over their hospital. If she can control House, then she can control everything.

Everything, it seems, except the part of her that wonders how long it will take for House to call in his IOU.

"Well," Wilson says. He stands on the curb, his hands stuffed into his pants pockets and pushing the material out, like a little boy who doesn't want to play grown-up anymore. He rocks from heels to toes, once, twice. He clears his throat, and then swallows whatever he was going to say.

"Yeah," Cuddy says. It's a little chilly but she hasn't put her coat on. Folding it over her arms gives her something to do with her hands.

Wilson smiles at his feet. His hair slips down his forehead. The twinkling lights in the restaurant windows soften him, and when he turns to face her, his expression is wistful. "It wasn't a date, was it," he says.

Cuddy shakes her head a little. She's not sure if she means What are you talking about? or I don't know.

Wilson shrugs and his smile widens, just enough that Cuddy knows he's laughing at himself. She's glad he doesn't try to share the joke. He says, "You'll get to your car all right?"

She nods.

"Well," Wilson says again. "Thank you for dinner, Lisa." He starts off across the parking lot, and looks back over his shoulder once, like a puppy who wanted to play and got kicked for his trouble. All of a sudden Cuddy feels guilty. She can't remember a date that has ended more awkwardly, even though it was less a date than an inquisition. She wants to run after him, comfort him, and spew out a thousand clichés like It's not you, it's me. She opens her mouth and almost starts after him, then she shakes her head and firmly sets out for her own car. James Wilson clearly doesn't need any help getting laid, if this is the kind of reaction most women have after one meal with him. It's obvious that Wilson doesn't care if it's his wife sleeping next to him as long as someone is. What dinner amounted to was realizing that the last thing Cuddy wants is to be one more notch on anyone's bedpost, especially Wilson's. She respects him for his ability, which so far she's managed to keep separate from the black hole of hospital gossip, and she wants it to stay that way.

Cuddy walks towards her car, keeping a sharp eye out for anyone who might be lurking. There's not a snowball's chance in hell that Wilson didn't let slip to House what was happening tonight, so she's expecting House to appear out of nowhere and start either mocking her or analyzing her motivations in asking Wilson out and then sending him home with a pat on the head. Most likely, he'll do both.

But House isn't waiting next to her car, leaning into the paint job and twirling his cane, ready with a smart remark. Cuddy unlocks the door and gets in. He's enough of a stalker that he's probably staked out her house, watching to see if she brings Wilson home with her. She spends the drive home preemptively annoyed with him for interfering with her personal life, preparing for the battle of wits once she confronts him. Only when she parks in her driveway does she realize she's been defending herself to House in her head for sleeping with Wilson, and first of all, she isn't taking Wilson to bed and doesn't want to, and second, House isn't even there to hear all her carefully prepared sarcastic retorts.

She's barely in the door when her phone rings. She snatches it up and stops herself before she can blurt out, "House?" Instead she snaps, "What?" and she's very glad it's too late for her mother to be calling.

"How was the consult?" House's voice sounds rough and deep. He's either sleepy or high, and Cuddy knows where her money would be given those two choices, but her mind tosses up an image of him lying on his bed, tousled and even more stubbly than usual, one hand holding the phone to his ear and the other resting on his stomach, just low enough to be suggestive.

"It wasn't a consult," she says.

"And yet you're home. And picking up on the first ring," he says. "Wilson's losing his touch."

"It wasn't a date," she says.

His silence is like a smile. "Mmm. Not a consult, not a date. Business dinner with only one department head? The first one in ten years..."

Cuddy drops her purse and her coat on the couch. She moves to her bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed. "House, what do you want?"

"What are you wearing?" he asks lightly.

"How many times did you call me tonight?" she counters. He was smart enough not to leave messages on the machine, but that doesn't mean much. She kicks off her shoes and rubs her feet with her free hand.

"If it's anything that can be described as 'skimpy' or 'revealing', yell at me and then hang up," House says. "I can do the rest."

"I am not dating Wilson," Cuddy says. "Your boys' club is safe, Alfalfa."

"It's something else, then," he muses.

"Yes, I have a secret second career as a restaurant critic, and I needed someone to try the garlic shrimp sautée without raising suspicions," Cuddy says. "House, there is nothing to figure out."

"Except your choice of nightwear," he says.

"You went through all my clothes when Alfredo got sick."

He makes an amused noise. "Did Chase squeal again? I thought the medically-necessary speech was working."

Cuddy lays back on the bed and closes her eyes. "This is ridiculous."

"But you haven't hung up."

She clicks the phone off and drops it on the bed. She can't let House be right all the time. He's bad enough as it is.

She stays up reading proposals for clinical trials. She's not waiting to see if he'll call back. She signs off on a dozen things that she can't remember five minutes later. When she finally turns off the lamp and gets under the covers, she's ready to admit to herself that she wishes it was House she'd invited to dinner all along.

After all, in theory, House is attractive. The only problem is House in practice.

"It doesn't hurt," House says. He sounds almost sad, the way he gets when he's serious, and he can't quite meet her eyes.

Cuddy stands in her doorway, shivering. "House, it's the middle of the night," she says. It's not the right note to strike, but he woke her up pounding on her front door, and she's cold and only half-awake.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Cuddy blinks. "Excuse me?" She shakes herself into a little more alertness. House apologizing is something worth getting a recording of, for blackmail purposes later. She wants to needle him about it, but he's too sincere to make it fun.

His lips move a little, on the edge of the smile, but he won't look at her. "I thought..." He stops, and laughs hoarsely. "I thought I'd go for a run."

She nods. His t-shirt is damp and he's wearing shorts long enough to hide the twist of his scar and the missing tissue. She's amazed that he's sticking to his PT regimen, but maybe it's worth it. All the ketamine studies she's read emphasize caution, letting time pass, impermanence. House is the last person who'd wait and see. He wants to run now, so he does. Even if it's one AM.

There's silence for a moment, long enough that Cuddy wants to fidget. She's not used to House like this, quiet and uncertain. "Why did you run here?" she asks finally. Normally, she'd suspect that he's bragging that his medical leave is obviously unnecessary, and he's skipping work just to mess with her. Not tonight, though.

House looks up at last, a quick, darting movement of his head. "I want to come in," he says.

Cuddy catches her breath. That's not all he wants. He meets her eyes at last and everything he needs is written there. Her stomach flutters nervously. "Why?" she asks.

"Because I can."

It's a dangerously attractive idea. For a second she makes a list of all the places he might have gone before coming here, but the list is so short it's barely worth considering. From something Wilson implied, House really hasn't been with anyone since Stacy except call girls. She's always known he wants her; that he trusts her with this is something else again.

It's easy to imagine that because his leg is better, he can be fixed. But it's not his leg that made him who he is, and healing that injury doesn't make this a good idea.

"No," she says.

He nods.

"It's not--" she starts, but he's already gone. She watches him run until he's lost beyond the streetlights. He still favours his right leg enough that it shows to someone who knows, but anyone passing on the street would only see an idiot out for a run at one in the morning. He probably understands, anyway. He can pretend that he's running for fun; she knows he's storing it up for the day when he can't anymore, even if that day never comes. She's not going to do the same for his sex life. It would be too easy to pretend that this is reality. Too easy to let herself believe it's enough.

She's not going to sleep with House. She's only going to wish she could.

end

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November 10, 2006