Chapter Two: Waffling

Wilson heard his name and turned, catching sight of House and his companion as they 
disembarked from the elevator. He smiled, feeling a blush wash over him as the old woman 
came up and hugged him tightly.

“James Vilson, just as handsome as ever.” She beamed. Wilson sighed a little, aware that the 
nurses were watching.

“Mrs. Farber, it’s good to see you! Why didn’t you tell me, House?” he added over her 
shoulder. House gave an elaborate shrug.

“Surprise visit. Feisty sort, these old bats.” He mumbled. Wilson arched an eyebrow, not 
completely buying the explanation, but he let it go and turned his attention to Mrs. Farber.

“You’re doing well?”

“Ja, ja. Still getting around goot, and I haf my health.” Her glance fell to his left hand and she 
sighed; the band of white skin was almost gaudy on his finger. Wilson bit his lips.

“Yes, well . . . Um, let me—“ he looked around. House broke in gently, coming to the rescue.

“—Introduce you to our newest psychologist, Doctor Emily Mansfield. She and Wilson are 
sharing an office—“ he intoned in a slightly salacious voice. Mrs. Farber looked intrigued; 
Wilson a bit fearful.

“I don’t think she’s here at the moment—“

“—Yes she is,” piped a nurse brightly, earning a quick annoyed glare from Wilson. House shot 
a look with Mrs. Farber and pointed his cane towards a door beyond the nurse’s desk.

“Her playroom’s in there—but you won’t like where she keeps the litter box.”

“It’s a therapy table, not a litter box—“ Wilson defended, then rolled his eyes and led the way 
into Emily’s Occupational Therapy room. As they stepped in, Mrs. Farber blinked, looking at the 
huge sand table and shelves of toys. Emily glanced up from a handful of flyers and hastily 
shoved them into a folder on one corner table.

“Hi?” she asked, waiting for an explanation. House flashed her a coy look.

“I brought my mom and she says I can have your Gravedigger.”

“Nice try, but no dice,” she replied firmly, stepping up to look at Wilson and the woman. Wilson’s manners prompted him to make the introduction.

“Mrs. Farber, this is Doctor Emily Mansfield, Emily, this is Mrs. Farber. She’s an old . . . friend 
of House.”

“—Ancient, really.” House amended, feinting off another playful jab of her cane. Mrs. Farber 
shot House a lofty look, and then a warmer one to Emily.

“Pleased to meet you. You do brain vork, ja?”

“Yes, sort of—“ Emily agreed, smiling. Mrs. Farber looked at the sand table. Wilson and House 
were surreptitiously scrutinizing the shelves. “The conscious and unconscious choices and arrangements of symbolic manipulatives can be the keys to many internal conflicts and 
unresolved issues . . . a good number of the objects are hard to resist for many patients—and others—“ she added. House stopped eying the truck and tried to appear offended.

“Plain old covetousness is pretty easy to diagnose—“Wilson added with a straight face. Mrs. 
Farber sighed.

“I hope you don’t haff Hot Wheels track too—A certain person here whom I will NOT name 
would probably never leaff if you dit.”

“And on THAT note I think we can move along now—“ House huffed slightly, shooting a glare at 
Mrs. Farber. She beamed at Emily and looked from her to Wilson.

“Ja, well it vas nice to meet you and goot to see you too, James, but Greg is taking me to lunch before I head back to Trrrenton.”

“I am?” House queried. Mrs. Farber shook Emily’s hand, patting it softly. She turned to Wilson, 
giving his cheek a gentle pinch in the time-honored gesture of grandmothers everywhere.

“And YOU—just . . . be heppy, okay James?”

“I’ll try,” Wilson dimpled, blushing a bit. He and Emily watched as House and Mrs. Farber limped 
out together, grumbling about lunch in low voices. Emily chuckled softly.

“So who is she? Aunt? Old teacher?”

“Housekeeper—which probably was a massive undertaking in many senses of the word. She’s 
known House since he was about three, and any civility the man has is the result of her chipping 
away at the granite of his stubborn personality. Plus she’s a pretty good cook, apparently.”

“Ah,” Emily crossed her arms and pondered this. “Was she there for his leg?”

Wilson frowned a little and stepped closer to Emily, not meeting her eyes. He lowered his voice. 
“No. Not because she didn’t want to be, but Stacy—House’s significant other at the time—
wouldn’t let her. And by the time Stacy left, House was pretty much physically healed.”

“But emotionally?”

“Let’s . . . not go there,” Wilson replied softly. Emily gave a slow nod.

“And I take it Mrs. Farber is no Stacy fan?”

“No.” Wilson admitted with a rueful expression. Emily sighed and picked up the folder on the 
table.

 “So, feel like a little lunch yourself?”

Emily gave him a hesitant smile, and shook her head. “I’m afraid not—I have an appointment in Freehold I have to go to this afternoon.”

“Ah.” Disappointed, Wilson sighed. “Maybe another time then. Doctor’s appointment?”

“Yes—um, well not really. It’s . . .” Before she could say anything more her pager went off; 
relieved Emily gave a little chuckle as she fished it off of her lab coat lapel. Wilson caught her 
arm as she tried to brush past him.

“Em . . .” he looked at her, forcing her meet his eyes. She bit her lip.

“James . . . I can’t do lunch, but I’ll be back by six, and if you want to do dinner—“

“—Dinner’s good,” he tried not to sound relieved, but Emily continued on, her voice a little 
strained.

“—Then we can talk then. I’m still trying to work some things out, and you’re, well, you’re not 
making it easy for me. Did you want to meet somewhere?”

Wilson thought quickly. “I’m not picky—whatever you’re in the mood for.”

“Waffle World.”

“Waffle World.” Wilson said in the same disbelieving tone someone else might use in saying 
‘frozen liver with cheesy marshmallow gravy’. Emily nodded, not noticing his distaste.

“Yeah, I LOVE that place. There’s one on Birch and Hollander, north of you . . . I can meet you 
there, all right—“

She flashed him a smile, impulsively dropping her hand on his where it gripped her arm and 
giving it a squeeze. Wilson tightly nodded. He watched her walk out, and it was only when she 
was gone that he wondered why she didn’t see a doctor right here at the hospital.

***   ***   ***

House sat at the cafeteria table, eyeing his Reuben sandwich and waiting for it to get cold. 
Across from him, Mrs. Farber was daintily eating cheese and broccoli soup, dabbing her mouth between spoonfuls.

“So Vilson does not know that you and your dean are . . . making vhoopie?” she asked conversationally. House fumbled with the slice of pickle he was fishing off of his sandwich.

“We’re not—okay, I suppose in a twisted sense of the euphemism I suppose we ARE—“

“No supposing, Hasi. I saw Doctor Cuddy, and I KNOW you. I know your type.” She added with 
a hint of malicious glee.

“Not lissstennnning—“ he singsonged back, focusing on his sandwich. Mrs. Farber went on 
between sips.

“You like zem curvy and schtacked. Like father like son, must be a genetic thing with Houses, 
nich war?”

House gave a much put-upon sigh.

“So you don’t buy the concept that I could have started this subterfuge with noble intentions 
here; that I’m making amends for past misconduct and building up my reputation from the bitter 
ashes of past sins?”

“Ha!” came the mildly derisive hoot. House held his index finger back with his thumb, then 
carefully flicked the pickle slice off his plate, making it sail across the table to land with a wet 
‘plop’ in Mrs. Farber’s soup.

She glared at him.

“You think you can get avay with that do you? Big hot-shot doctor now, too tough for an old lady 
to take on?” came her mild question. House lifted his chin challengingly, but there was a spark 
of affection in his blue eyes as he picked up his sandwich and bit into it. He was chewing a 
mouthful when Mrs. Farber slowly grinned.

“I maybe old, Gregory, but I am vell-armed. I brought a veapon.”

For a moment House looked vaguely concerned, but continued chewing, keeping up his bluff as 
Mrs. Farber fished out the pickle slice with her spoon and set it on the side of her plate with a 
haughty sniff.

The pause dragged on, and House began to fidget a little; Mrs. Farber said nothing, finishing 
her soup. After a while, someone cleared a throat, and both House and Mrs. Farber looked up 
to see Cuddy standing there, a red file in her hands. She looked like a Siamese contemplating 
a bowl of fresh cream as she handed it to House.

“A doctor’s work is never done-- clinic awaits.”

Immediately House shot a mock-beseeching glance at Mrs. Farber. “Do I HAVE to?”

“Yes,” chorused both women. With reluctance, House slowly rose, sneering at the file in his 
hand. He looked at his lunch partner for a moment and she smiled back at him, speaking softly.

“It’s okay. My bus doesn’t go oontil after six anyvay. I’ll watch ze nice TV in the lounge.”

“You can have my OFFICE—“ House murmured, turning his gaze absently to the file, “As long 
as you stay away from the liquor cabinet and don’t watch any of my porn tapes.”

Mrs. Farber rolled her eyes. “Oh my, vatever will I do to entertain myself now? Oh I know . . .” 
with an angelic smile she looked at Cuddy, who was trying to hide an amused expression. 
“Doctor Cuddy, vould you like to see some . . . baby pictures?”

House’s eyes went wide and he froze in a moment of stunned panic. Cuddy gracefully sat down 
next to Mrs. Farber and smiled. She propped her chin in her hand.

“I’d LOVE to, and call me Lisa, please.”

House glared at them both, then mustered what dignity he could and lurched away, head held 
high, not looking back. Cuddy watched him go and in one moment a surge of tenderness spiked through her chest, deep and strong. She looked away from House’s retreating back only to see 
Mrs. Farber’s empathetic gaze.

“Ja he can be pretty adorable vunce you get past ze dachs personality, eh?”

“Dachs?” Cuddy murmured. Mrs. Farber was fishing in the mesh bag, nodding.

“Dachs . . . in English, how you say—badger, ja? All gruff oont mean.”

“Ah. Yes, that pretty well fits House . . .” Cuddy replied as Mrs. Farber triumphantly fished out a 
small leather album and set it on the table. She pushed the soup bowl out of the way and 
carefully opened the little album.

“I am trrrrusting you,” Mrs. Farber murmured, turning her big brown eyes to Cuddy and studying 
her with intensity. Cuddy nodded.

The first photo was a small black and white one, slightly faded with a torn lower corner. In it, a 
small curly-haired boy scowled at the camera, absolutely unthrilled to have his picture taken. He looked to be about three, dressed in a grubby button-down shirt and shorts. At his bare feet lay 
a collection of battered-looking plastic army men and wooden blocks, but it was his stance and expression that caught Cuddy’s eye. House stood in his familiar defiant pose, chin out, eyes 
fierce, and even though he lacked the beard and cane, the other features were familiar.

“My God, he looks—“

“—Just ze same,” Mrs. Farber smiled, albeit with a hint of sadness. “Ja. Vhen I came to work 
for ze Houses, Gregory was . . . a handful.”

“I BET.” Cuddy grinned. Mrs. Farber touched the photo gently.

“A difficult time for them all. His mother vas . . . not well, and Doctor House vas very busy. He 
ran a practice out of his home at first.”

“Oh.” Startled and intrigued, Cuddy said nothing more and Mrs. Farber turned the page.

This photo was a candid shot: a boy and two women on a balcony. Cuddy realized the woman in 
the housedress and apron holding House was Mrs. Farber herself, with dark braids instead of 
white ones, and a much younger face. The little boy had one arm around her neck but was 
looking at the other woman, who had her hand on his shoulder.

Cuddy studied her carefully, seeing recognizable features on the other woman.

She was tall, with brown wavy hair, striking eyes and a curve to her mouth that Cuddy had seen 
on House; the same quirked corner lifted in a smirk. She wore a pink pantsuit and had a dark 
scarf tied around her neck, and in her other hand she held a sand bucket. Mrs. Farber spoke 
again, her voice soft.

“Caroline House vas a sweet woman. She tried hard to be goot to Gregory.”

“He looks a lot like her,” Cuddy commented, noting the empty martini glass on the table in the background and saying nothing. Mrs. Farber nodded and turned the page. There were two 
photos here, and Cuddy had to bite her lips to keep the giggles back.

 One was of House in a elementary school photo, managing a perfunctory smile that indicated 
he had WAY better things to do than sit for a picture. His hair needed a trim, the thick brown 
curls a bit unkempt, and the striped shirt although clean looked baggy on his skinny frame. Mrs. Farber grinned.

“Fifth grade. He grew zat summer, alvays eating, alvays moving. I sent him eight care 
packages ven he vus at camp and he brought me back a leather keychain and a dead squirrel.”

“How  . . . thoughtful—“ Cuddy tried not to laugh, but Mrs. Farber did, snorting a little.

“He vanted to schtuff and mount it at home, but of course when I unpacked it, ze maggots and 
flies had already gotten to the corpse—oh mein Gott, such nastiness! I had to air his room for 
three days and ve had a serious talk. Not the first—“

Cuddy shifted her gaze to the other photo. In it, House and two other boys were gleefully 
dressed in Halloween costumes. House was the pirate with the eyepatch, dagger in his slightly crooked teeth; Cuddy thought the scarf around his head was the same one his mother had
been wearing in the other photo. A hobo and a cowboy flanked him, and all three carried 
pillowcases that seemed about a third full. Mrs. Farber stroked the photo.

“With Roger and Sam. Good boys all of dem.”

“Looks like he got a pretty good haul that year.” Cuddy mentioned. Mrs. Farber nodded.

“Even back zen he was . . . methodical.” She turned the page, and Cuddy leaned closer, 
delighted to see a shot of House smiling. He was a teenager now, shading his eyes, standing in shorts and a tank top, a number pinned on the front of it. His frame had filled out a bit, stretched 
into lankiness and slim muscles. He had a sweatband around his forehead, and zits. Cuddy 
grinned.

“Gregory Haus, captain of ze track team—“ Mrs. Farber announced with pride. “Anchor of de 
relay, and high jump. Played lacrosse too.”

“Big Man on Campus—“ Cuddy murmured, half a question. Mrs. Farber shrugged a little.

“He vasn’t popular, but he vas respected. He could be very cutting to people, and not patient. 
But . . . “ she turned the page and Cuddy blinked, a little surprised, and oddly jealous. House 
stood in his prom photo, arms around a petite blonde girl with a perfect Farrah Fawcett hairdo. 
“ . . . he dit manage to date.”

“Ah.” Cuddy replied politely, fascinated with House in his dark blue tuxedo and ruffled shirt. His expression was a mingled one of nervousness and amusement; as if he were perfectly aware 
of himself. Cuddy felt a little lump in her throat—he was so tall and gawky, so full of promise . . . suddenly she wanted to kiss him.

A cool hand slipped over hers, and she glanced at Mrs. Farber, who was looking at the photo 
too.

“I came here to ask Gregory about zis . . . untruth ze two of you are making. I am concerned 
because I love zis boy with all my heart, Lisa. His . . . hurts go very deep.”

For a moment Cuddy couldn’t speak; gradually she cleared her throat and nodded. “I 
understand. Mrs. Farber—“

“Marlena—“ she corrected with a soft smile.

“—Marlena. I wouldn’t hurt him for the world. Gregory House is an extraordinary man, one of a 
kind.”

Mrs. Farber looked up suddenly, her brown eyes magnified by her lenses as she caught 
Cuddy’s gaze. “He is doing zis trick for YOU, you know. He says it is for ze money, de funding 
oont all, but under all his vords I hear something else. He is afraid of disappointing you.”

This concept startled Cuddy for a moment; she paused wordlessly and Mrs. Farber nodded. 
Then, with arthritic slowness, she picked up the worn album and put it into her mesh bag.

“House has never . . . disappointed me.” Cuddy confessed, realizing the words were absolutely 
true. Mrs. Farber slowly smiled, her shoulders straightening a bit at this. She rose to her feet, 
gripping her cane carefully.

“Goot. Zis eases mein mind a great deal. All I haf ever wanted for him is to be heppy.” She 
rolled her eyes at Cuddy, “—And to have a baby too, but only because I am a selfish olt voman 
now.”

“A . . . baby?” Cuddy felt her tongue press against the inside of her cheek, very firmly. Mrs. 
Farber shot her a mischievous look as they began to leave the cafeteria.

“Ja. After forty years of his what ze are called? Schenanagins? I figure he owes it to me to be a grandmutter.”

***   ***   ***

Wilson checked his watch again. He fidgeted. He looked at the laminated menu before him and ignored the enticing photos and large print as he waited for Emily. Outside the soft blue of 
twilight was stealing over the roofs of the buildings on Birch Street, and the streetlights were 
starting to come on. He sighed.

The rattle of the bell over the door caught his ear even over the mumble of conversation and 
other restaurant noises, and looking up he finally caught sight of Emily scurrying in, searching 
Waffle World for him. When she caught his smile she smiled back and moved towards him.
Wilson rose, out of politeness and need; when Emily was close enough she hugged him and 
Wilson savored the way she clung for a long moment before pulling away. He quickly kissed her, pleased to see her pinken a little.

“Sorry, traffic on the way back was terrible. Have you been waiting long?”

“Half an hour or so, nothing major.” Wilson confessed, helping her out of her coat.

Emily slid into the booth, bouncing a little on the vinyl seat and settling herself with a wince. 
Wilson sat down again himself and leaned forward.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, actually. I’m fine,” she reassured him quickly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear and 
sighing. It was clear she wasn’t going to say anything more about her trip to Freehold, and
Wilson didn’t like the sense of disappointment. To counter it, he picked up the menu.

“So—Waffle World. I have to admit, I’m a little apprehensive.”

“Why?” Surprised, Emily looked at him. He gave a rueful little sigh.

“I’ve been . . . . dumped here. Twice, in fact. The place holds bad karma for me. Superstitious I suppose, but . . .”

“A pattern of expectations is established,” Emily mused. “I’m sorry, I had no idea. You should 
have said something, James.”

Wilson shook his head and plastered a smile on. “No, no—if you like waffles then by all means, waffles it shall be. I have to check though—are you going to dump me?”

He expected her to laugh, or protest, and when she didn’t, a cold spike of anxiety lanced 
through his stomach. Wilson blinked. Emily slowly shook her head.

“No—although I can’t promise that YOU won’t dump ME by the time this dinner is over—“ The waitress came over, a big African-American woman with a gold tooth and a sunny smile.

“Oh yeah, we are cookin’ tonight! We have specials on the Strawberry stack and the 
Bottomless bacon if y’all are in the mood for breakfast food. Do y’all need more time?”

“Ah—just a moment, yes, please—“ Wilson politely pleaded, holding up a hand. The waitress 
caught the tension at the table and with a nod, politely retreated. Emily waited until the woman 
was off helping another table before speaking again. She leaned forward and looked steadily at Wilson, who looked back at her.

“I think you need to explain that to me,” Wilson sighed. Emily nodded. She took a deep breath; 
thinking for a moment then spoke up.

“James, you know how you make plans for your life? When you’re younger you decide what 
career you’ll have, and whether you’ll marry, have children, travel, buy a house—all that stuff?”

He nodded encouragingly, his dimples framing his smile. “Yes, I seem to recall being pretty 
serious about becoming a doctor—“

Emily grinned back at that. She continued. “And you’ve done it very well. We all do life planning, 
and some people are more serious about their goals than others. YOU decided to be an 
oncologist, and I chose to be a psychologist. We’re both very determined people.”

“Good, we’re in agreement here. Very determined people. This isn’t getting me any closer to understanding much, but it sounds good.” Wilson teased lightly. Emily nodded and put her hands 
on the table.

“James, I made a plan. I started thinking about it three years ago back when I was in Virginia. I 
knew it would be rough and take some time, but the time is now, and I don’t want to get 
sidetracked from it.”

Wilson’s smile faded a little and he blinked. “Am I sidetracking you?”

“Sort of—“ Emily smiled then, and took one of his hands, her own warm and strong in his. 
Gratefully Wilson gripped it in his own.

He needed it when Emily blurted out,  “I’m trying to get pregnant, James.”

A long, weird moment passed, and in it, Wilson could hear all the sounds around them in Waffle World: the clinking of dishes, the murmur of low conversations, the dull roar of traffic beyond the glass window they sat under. His grip on Emily’s fingers tightened.

“You’re . . . trying to get pregnant?” he echoed faintly, the words sounding odd. Emily nodded 
again, and spoke more rapidly this time.

“Yes. My family has a long history of infertility. I’ve always wanted to have a child, and now that 
I’ve got an established career, it’s an excellent time to begin trying for one. I wanted a husband 
too of course but THAT hasn’t been an area I’ve had a lot of success in, so I thought I’d go 
ahead with the baby plan first.”

“So—you’re trying to have a baby. Is this the reason for the trip to Freehold?” Wilson murmured, trying to process this new and startling information. He grappled with the odd mix of jealousy, 
panic and arousal that mingled in him. His stomach hurt. Emily squeezed his fingers.

“Yes. They just put me on Clomid. I’ll take that for a few months to get me ready, and after 
that . . . “

“ . . . In vitro,” Wilson finished faintly. He shifted his gaze from Emily’s tense face to the menu 
on the table, noting a jam stain on it. When she tried to pull her fingers away, he tightened his 
grip.

“James, I . . . I don’t know what to say. After Saturday night—“ she gulped, her voice low and imploring. Wilson closed his eyes.

“Saturday night WAS pretty wonderful. I haven’t necked like that in . . . centuries. I wouldn’t mind 
doing it again, frankly, even with . . . a . . . pregnant lady.”

A choking sound made him open his eyes; Emily was crying almost silently now, big tears sliding 
down her face. Wilson moved without even thinking about it, sliding out of his side of the booth 
and into hers, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Emily leaned into him, taking comfort in 
the warmth. Wilson sensed people looking at them and manfully ignored them.

“Shhhhhh . . . Em, don’t cry. Please—don’t cry. I can take almost any other reaction from a 
woman but tears, okay?”

“I’m trying . . . NOT to cry!” she whispered, her words shaky enough to show she was laughing 
a bit too. “This wasn’t supposed to happen this way—I was all set to have you for a close 
colleague, and settle in at Princeton-Plainsboro, have my baby, get my priorities straight. For 
God’s sake I was even planning on making friends with your wife, James! And then you tell me 
you’re getting a divorce, and I find out that Ned can’t father the baby and on Saturday I’m 
practically forcing myself on you—“

“Whoa—time OUT. Nobody forced anyone on Saturday. I recall it being a pretty mutual meeting 
of libidos, Em. And as for the divorce—“ Wilson sighed, “That was a long time coming.”

For a moment they didn’t speak; the waitress came back and silently deposited a box of tissues 
on the table, her expression sympathetic. Wilson gave her a crooked smile.

“Thank you.”

“S’all right. We get stuff like this all the time—“ the waitress admitted.

“May I get a glass of water?” Emily asked softly, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. The waitress nodded.

“Sho, honey, no problem.”

When she had left, Wilson sighed deeply and turned, brushing his cheek against Emily’s auburn 
hair.

“Tell me everything,” he requested softly.

***   ***   ***

The last call came for the bus to Trenton, the PA blaring through the noisy station. House stood 
on the curb, leaning close to the woman on his left as the wind snapped through the terminal 
ruffling his bangs and making his coat flap. Mrs. Farber clutched the mesh bag and hunched 
down in her loden coat.

“I vill expect you at Tanksgiving of course.”

“Jawohl,” House mumbled with strained playfulness. He led her to the steps of the bus and 
Cuddy watched as he dropped all facetiousness. He gave the old woman a tight hug, patiently accepting her kisses on each of his stubbly cheeks before helping her up the steep steps and passing her cane up to her. Keenly he watched her progress down the aisle and limped over to 
the window of the seat she chose. House lifted his own cane to rap at the glass and she opened 
the window.

“No cauliflower!” he yelled up at her over the noise of the terminal. Mrs. Farber laughed, waving 
a hand in a ‘we’ll see’ gesture before closing the window. House sighed a moment and limped 
back to where Cuddy stood, his expression bleak. She understood; anyone who had older loved 
ones wore it once in a while, that painful realization that the last goodbye was coming sometime 
soon.

Cuddy moved closer to him, pressing against his left side, and House slid an arm around her 
even as he turned to look back at the bus. The last passengers were climbing in now, and the baggage compartments were being closed. Cuddy could see Mrs. Farber watching the both of 
them from her window.

“I like her.”

“She likes you,” House replied in a low voice. “I assumed she would. Mrs. Farber relates well to 
other dominatrixes.”

Cuddy laughed, and right in the middle of it, House pulled her to him and dropped a kiss on her 
mouth, warm and brazen, definitely a PDA worth seeing. Cuddy clung to him, unable to think 
about anything but the pleasure of the moment, and by the time she caught her breath, there 
was a smattering of applause from the bus. Blushing, she punched House’s bicep.

“Ow. I’m telling.”

“Who, exactly? Mrs. Farber is still clapping, you know.” Cuddy murmured as the bus began to 
pull away. House turned to follow it, his shoulders tight. When the taillights had finally faded in 
the distance, House sighed. Cuddy tightened her hug around his waist.

“She’s the one listed as Next of Kin. Just in case you ever have to make the call—“ he 
muttered. Cuddy nodded.

They walked through the terminal, letting go but not completely, loosely holding hands. At the 
parking lot, House looked tired. He leaned on the door of Cuddy’s car and tried to say 
something as she fished her keys out.

“I . . . do you want to have dinner?”

Cuddy looked up at him, a little surprised. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really.” House admitted in a low voice. In a flash she understood; he was lonely, he wanted 
to be with her and didn’t know exactly how to ask.

“Come over to my place. You can help me clean out my fridge, and if you do a good job . . .” she 
left the sentence unfinished. House stared at her, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Doctor Cuddy, are you abusing your position of authority over me?” he softly questioned, one eyebrow going up.

“Yep.”

“Oh good. I LOVE it when you’re on top,” House smiled lasciviously, pushing himself off of the 
car, and slid his cane along the outside of Cuddy’s leg.