Chapter Two: Roommates

He hummed. House normally wasn’t a person who hummed, but given his current mood it fit. At 
the moment the water was nearly perfect; hot without being scalding, and pleasantly deep. He 
sat naked on the submerged tiled ledge of the tub, blissing out while the Vicodin and his 
buoyancy made the chronic ache deep in his damaged thigh lessen considerably.

 

House had resisted Cuddy’s attempts to doctor the water up with bubble bath or salts, 
preferring his bath uncluttered by what he sneeringly dismissed as ‘Fraulein frou-frou’. He had 
his arms out along the tiled edge of the sunken tub, his head back, eyes closed. Humming.

 

“It’s been nearly an hour. You’re going to turn into a complete prune if you stay in much 
longer—“ Cuddy’s voice filtered through the bathroom door. House sighed, rolling his eyes.

 

“The dehydration is worth every moment. So how did you end up with a bathroom that looks like 
a set from Caligula anyway?” he called back. It amused him to no end to talk to Cuddy knowing 
he was naked.

 

“My uncle Marvin is a plumber and got me a good deal on the fixtures. Told me that a sunken 
tub has better insulation than a standalone. Why? Thinking of getting one?” she called back 
absently. House assumed she was doing something menial while sitting on her bed, like 
paperwork.

 

“I don’t need to.” He drawled, “I’m perfectly content to come over here and drop my furry butt in YOURS once in a while.”

 

“Eww! I might make you work another clinic hour for that charming image—“

 

“Do that and I’ll share how our date night ended with everyone at the hospital—“ he threatened 
back through a small smile. Shifting, he studied his fingertips and realized with annoyance that 
they WERE deeply wrinkled. House gave a little fretful sigh, and began to rise, gripping the rail 
to lever himself. The water sloshed.

 

“Getting out? Doing okay?”

 

“Yes I’m a great BIG boy now—going to check behind my ears next?” he muttered grumpily. 
The two steps back up didn’t hurt much now that his leg was relaxed, and he leaned one bare 
hip against the sink counter as he dried himself. The carpeting underfoot gave him more 
confident traction, and House glanced in the mirror at himself as he wrapped a towel low 
around his lean hips.

 

Eh. Still thin, paler now. Good upper body strength easily attributed to the rigors of the cane 
and the physical therapy that he glumly put himself through periodically to prevent atrophy. With 
vague dismay House noted how grey his chest hair had gotten. Suddenly the fact that he was
studying his body in Cuddy’s bathroom mirror struck him as funny and he sardonically flexed a 
bicep at himself.

 

“Are you done?”

 

The shock of her amused voice cutting into his antics startled him and he bumped his cane 
from where it was hooked on the bathroom counter; it fell to the carpet with a soft thump. 
House glared.

 

“There is something unnaturally perverted about the way you CONSTANTLY barge in on me in 
the john. I understand it’s been a long time since you’ve seen male body parts, but this 
persistence of yours is unnerving.” He snapped.

 

Cuddy thrust her jaw out, hands on her hips. She wore dark blue silk pajamas with a matching 
robe, and the color brought out the hint of red in her hair. She was fighting a grin, he could tell, 
and the sweet shift of her breasts under the thin fabric was very distracting.

 

“MY persistence? Who was it who demanded to take a bath here anyway?” Cuddy pointed out, 
trying not to notice the strong curves of muscle along House’s arms, the soft nest of chest hair between his nipples and the darker trail of it heading down his abdomen to . . .

 

To places better left unspeculated about, she instantly decided. House pointedly looked 
towards his fallen cane, and Cuddy scooped it up. When she handed it back to him, he slid his 
grip over the handle, brushing his warm, damp fingers over hers in the process.

 

“We’ve got the cliché backwards here. It’s supposed to be the woman in a towel and the guy in pajamas, right? And then they’re supposed to banter and fight some sort of physical attraction 
with witty dialog while the audience groans over the trite cliché of it all.”

 

“Get out of my bathroom and into your clothes, Doctor House.” Cuddy sighed. House 
pretended to look hurt.

 

“Fine, sure—lead a guy on with tender promises about a hot soak and then throw him out into 
the storm—“ he moved past her, but out of sheer malicious impulse, Cuddy reached and 
grabbed a handful of the towel, yanking down hard. Caught off-guard for a moment, House 
clutched with his free hand, managing to keep the terrycloth pinned to the front of himself, but it 
fell away from his backside, revealing his naked ass.

 

Cuddy burst into laughter. House stood there, mustering his dignity and looking through the 
open door to the bedroom.

 

“You DO realize, this means war—“ he intoned gravely, keeping his gaze straight ahead. 
Cuddy was too far gone in her giggles, using the edge of the bathroom counter to support 
herself as she tried to catch her breath. House lumbered through the doorway and towards the 
bed, where his spare gear had been laid out across the satin spread. He hesitated. To grab at 
the boxers would mean having to let go of the towel, and while normally he wouldn’t have given 
much of a damn about shocking a member of the opposite sex, this was Cuddy, and she had a 
bad habit of affecting him in ways he couldn’t easily control. At the moment things were 
already . . . showing signs of life, and House wasn’t quite ready to spring a surprise like that on 
her.

 

“I’ll leave you and your tushie to get dressed, but next time, bring a bathrobe,” Cuddy snorted, 
striding through the bedroom and heading for the door. House clutched the towel a little more 
tightly, but wasn’t about to let her have the last word.

 

“Already planning on having me back I see—can’t get a grip on that lust of yours.”

 

“I could have gripped something else when you walked by—“ she sweetly reminded him and 
stepped out. Cuddy walked barefoot to her kitchen, trying not to think about a naked Gregory 
House in her bedroom, but—

 

It was hard.

 

Okay bad word— maybe difficult would be a better, less suggestive choice she told herself as 
she poured coffee into two mugs. She hesitated, realizing that she didn’t even know how House 
took his coffee, which seemed odd after all their years working together. She added the two 
sugars and dollop of milk to hers and sipped it thoughtfully, looking out towards the koi pond.

 

So he wanted a bath now and then. Okay, no big deal—it was just a minor thing . . . except for 
the nudity, and the fact she’d have to be around in case he slipped. Cuddy shuddered at the 
idea of calling an ambulance and trying to justify an injured, naked soapy House being at her home—the ramifications of that scenario would be catastrophic.

 

But the look in his eyes; the tone of his voice when he’d asked—it would have taken a woman 
of stone to turn down that quiet, wistful request. Sighing, Cuddy set her cup down and stared 
into its mocha depths. House made things more complicated than they needed to be. He was 
brilliant and cynical, sharp and prickly and damn it, far too unaware of how attractive he was.

 

Especially when he showed a little vulnerability.

 

Cuddy shook that thought away as she heard the thump of the cane approaching. House stood 
in the doorway of her kitchen, his hair still damp, freshly dressed in jeans, a black tee and an unbuttoned dress shirt hanging open. His eyes flickered over the coffee and then to her as his 
mouth twitched.

 

“Got anything to eat?”

 

“We JUST got back from a restaurant—“ Cuddy protested, feeling a faint prickle of hunger 
herself. House lumbered in, eyeing the refrigerator.

 

“Where neither one of us ate much. Saving multimillionaires always gives me SUCH an 
appetite. I’m partial to stroganoff—“

 

“You looked in my fridge?” Slightly scandalized, Cuddy glared at him. House gave her an ‘of 
course’ look back, then settled himself at the kitchen table. She rose resentfully.

 

“I WAS saving that for dinner tomorrow night.” She grumbled, pulling one of the Tupperware 
containers out and opening it. Carefully she scooped it into two bowls and put them in the 
microwave after covering them with paper towels. As an afterthought, she added a dish of 
frozen green beans in as well and hit the buttons. The low hum of the microwave filled the 
kitchen for a few minutes. House sniffed the air appreciatively.

 

“Smells good—who made it?”

 

“I did.” Cuddy frowned at his skeptical look. “I DID. Marna, Louise and I have this casserole 
exchange every few weeks. We all make triple quantities and swap them around. Louise does 
a great pot roast, and Marna is good at homemade mac and cheese and WHAT?” her frown deepened at his soft smirk.

 

“Sorry, just caught up in this oh-so naughty fantasy of you in an apron and pearls. Do go on—“

“—And we get together and swap batches. Saves us each a week of cooking and having 
boring leftovers, end of story. Beans?”

 

“You’re going to make me eat something GOOD for me?” House looked slightly scandalized. 
Cuddy shot him a patient look and passed the dish.

 

“Yes. We’ll sneak in the vitamins—I know it will be a shock to your system, but I am a doctor, 
and I’ll get you through it.”

 

“At least it’s not cauliflower--colorless, mushy, bland—cauliflower is the only vegetable that 
looks completely unfinished.” He grumbled, spooning out a serving. Cuddy thought about that 
for a moment and slowly nodded.

 

They ate. Cuddy was gratified to notice that although House may not have completely believed 
she’d made the stroganoff, he liked it enough to eat the leftover portion in her bowl after he was 
done with his own serving. It was oddly satisfying to see him finish it off and give a little sigh 
when he was through.

 

“Damn, we ate it all, didn’t we?” House observed, blinking. Cuddy laughed softly and rose to 
carry the dishes to the dishwasher, loading them up.

 

“I don’t know about the ‘we’ part of that.”

 

“I was hungry, and I didn’t know you could . . . “ he waved a hand vaguely at the table, 
“ . . . cook. I assumed it was from your aunts or something.”

 

Cuddy paused, and glanced back at House; he elaborated. “I know your mother is dead, and 
from the pictures on the mantle it’s clear you have a generation of elderly people who raised 
you. Two of them are unmarried as evidenced by no wedding rings, so it was a logical 
assumption that they’re your aunts. Given your fashion sense, your home furnishings, blah, 
blah, blah—the influence of women seems pretty obvious to me.”

 

“I have uncles too—“ Cuddy protested, amazed at House’s deductions. He nodded impatiently.

 

“Yes, for the house and fixtures—but the majority of your upbringing was done by the aunts. 
Maybe a grandmother. Only a grandmother would insist on labeling Tupperware. Bad eyes, you 
know.”

 

Cuddy refused to fawn over his accurate assessment, and pointedly looked at her watch. 
House looked behind her at the fridge.

 

“What’s for dessert?” he demanded.

 

 

Cuddy yawned. The ice cream was gone, House was FINALLY hauling his ass to the door and 
she was hoping to get at least six hours of sleep before heading back to the hospital. Given the 
bustle of the average day, sacrificing sixty minutes of sleep to catch up on paperwork in 
comparative solitude was a regular payoff for her. She grudgingly followed House and leaned 
against the doorframe, pulling her thin robe closer against the chill. Above, the stars stood out 
against the indigo of the night. House reached in his pocket for his keys, transferring the 
backpack containing his clothes to the cane hand.

 

“You did remember to lock it up, right?” he rumbled, looking out to the curb, where the car was 
parked. Cuddy shrugged.

 

“I’m pretty sure I did. It’s a good neighborhood, nobody would mess with it.”

 

“Riiiight.” He scoffed. Uneasily he turned, looking down at her, and Cuddy watched his sense of courtesy struggling with his embarrassment. She smiled, and laid a hand on his chest.

 

“Go home and get some rest—we both have a long day today. Thanks for saving Hinoshu 
and . . . liking my stroganoff.” She shyly muttered.

 

“Yeah, well it’s been a while since I had something homemade. Thank you.” He replied, studying 
her face. For a second, Cuddy was sure he was going to say something more, but instead, he 
shifted gently into her personal space, bringing his face closer to hers. She blinked nervously.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Cuddy demanded in a low whisper. House slowly shook his 
head, keeping his eyes on her the entire time.

 

“No idea.” He admitted. Cuddy pulled back, but her head hit the doorframe and she couldn’t go 
any further. House’s breath was mingling with hers now, warm on her face.

 

“No you don’t--you don’t get to kiss—“ she muttered, but her words were cut off when his mouth pressed on hers, soft and warm. For a millisecond, House seemed stunned that he’d actually 
done it, and then sweet magnetism of the kiss took over, and he leaned into her, the pleasure 
pulsing deep and hot between the two of them. Cuddy slid her slender arms around his neck, 
her mouth trembling as it opened to House’s deliberate tongue. The first slide of it against hers 
sent a shock of delight through them both, and Cuddy dimly heard a pleasured duet of groans.

 

They broke, and kissed again, relaxing into it, thrilling at each soft probe and thrust, kissing with 
a gentle hunger that threatened to flare up into something much hotter and demanding. The 
scrape of his beard, the controlled yet deliberate passion of his mouth was almost more than 
Cuddy could bear; when they let it wane and pulled apart, she turned her head.

 

“Damn it—“ she muttered in a shaky voice, “why did you DO that?” She expected the flippant 
answer; some remark about twenty dollars, but he said nothing, and Cuddy looked back at him, 
letting her arms slip from his shoulders. House was half lit from the light of the hall behind her, 
and his eyes glittered oddly.

 

“Because it was another thing I wanted but couldn’t have.” He rumbled, sounding distant. He straightened up and turned, limping down the walkway towards the car at the curb, not looking 
back.

 

 
“Oh my God—House, she’s here. I am in so much trouble—“ Wilson hissed, looking agitated. 
He ran a hand through his hair and fell into step beside his friend, the two of them making good 
time down the hall. House flicked a glance at him.

 

“Julie?”

 

“Emily. She’s taking over for Leonard. I knew they’d hired someone for the post now that he’s 
retiring, but never in a million years did I think it would be . . .  well, and that’s not the HARD part 
either.”

 

“No, the hard part is figuring out which Emily you’re talking about: Emily Post? Emily Dickinson? 
Emily the big round janitor who works in the radiology wing?” House muttered impatiently. He 
didn’t dare look at Cuddy’s office as they passed it; Wilson gave a little sigh.

 

“Emily Mansfield. DOCTOR Emily Mansfield. The one I worked with during those two week-long conferences in Chicago in the last couple of years.”

 

House stopped short and turned his attention on Wilson. “Ah yes--the one who quote gave you 
majorly hot and sweaty dreams of a testosterone-driven nature unquote? Sounds like you 
remember her well.”

 

“House!” Wilson protested, going faintly red, but grinning all the same. “Have I ever mentioned 
how precisely irritating your eidetic memory can be at times? Yes, THAT Emily. And worse yet, 
she’s going to be sharing an office with me.”

 

“And this is a bad thing? Oh, wait, you’re . . . you’re . . . let me think about this . . . married! Yes, 
I knew I’d remember your status.”

 

Wilson’s face fell. “Exactly, although given the state of current events ala chez Wilson—“ He 
gave a resigned little shrug. House pulled open the glass door to his office and lurched in with 
Wilson trailing behind him. They both stopped, speechless at the sight of a huge beribboned 
fruit basket on the conference table. Suspiciously, House glanced around.

 

“Chase, Cameron and Foreman are all still in Syracuse . . . I didn’t win the Publisher’s 
Clearinghouse Sweepstakes . . . so this must be from my Heimlich patient last night,” House 
dourly deduced, picking up an orange and hefting it like a softball. Wilson plucked the card on 
the top of the basket and opened the tiny envelope.

 

“A token of gratitude, Taro Hinoshu. Wow. Half the citrus crop of Florida all because you 
helped the man hock up a chunk of under-chewed food? I’m impressed.”

 

“Never underestimate the gratitude of a billionaire—although it’s not quite as good as a sports 
car . . . “ House muttered, tossing the orange up and down in one palm. “So you’re going to be 
sharing an office with a woman whose very presence creates a Pavlovian hard-on. Tough call. 
If I were you I’d get a baggier lab coat.”

 

Wilson looked mildly worried. “She’s a psychologist—she’ll read all sorts of things into it, won’t 
she?”

 

House closed his eyes, pretending to concentrate, but in truth, thinking back over his time at 
Cuddy’s house. He’d done that off and on every few hours, analyzing and remembering, trying 
hard to take apart every action and find the motivation behind it. Most of it had been simple: 
he’d wanted a bath so he took one; he was hungry so he ate. But the kisses---that was harder 
to justify, particularly since remembering her ardent response to them always sent a hot pang 
of desire right between his thighs.

 

“Greg?” Wilson’s worried tone forced him to open his eyes once more. Grumpily House did.

 

“She’ll figure out you want to jump her bones—that’s pretty deep and twisted, James. Think how completely UNNATURAL a response that is for a man to a woman he’s attracted to. I’m utterly ASHAMED to be conversing with a deviant like you—“

 

Wilson was saved from any scathing response to this by the sudden appearance of a woman 
outside of House’s office. A stunning woman with shoulder-length dark glossy brown hair and thoughtful grey eyes. She had a pair of sunglasses parked on top of her head and was peeking through the glass and smiling warmly; the way her emerald jersey dress hugged her figure and displayed it had a carelessly sexy charm. Wilson stiffened.

 

“God! That’s Emily.” He muttered helplessly. House blinked.

 

“Ding-ding-a-ling, woof! Oooh yeah, I can definitely appreciate the stimulus, you dog.”

 

Wilson shot him a fierce look, muttering “I hate you.” Before turning to watch the woman pull 
open the door and stride in. She glided over and held out her hands to him.

 

“Wow, James! It’s wonderful to see you again—how long is it?”

 

“At least six inches,” House muttered in a low voice that only Wilson could hear. The other man ignored him and smiled helplessly as she pulled him into a quick hug.

 

“The last time I saw you was after that terrible Mexican buffet at the Radisson, the one with 
McDermott and Han getting blitzed on tequila.” Wilson commented, pulling away somewhat 
quickly from her and turning. “Emily, my associate and sometime friend, Gregory House, head 
of Diagnostic Medicine.”

 

She held out her hand and gripped House’s firmly, fingers cool in his, her grey eyes sweeping 
over him.

 

“Looks just as you described him. Grumpy, yet unlovable— man he DOES have the evil genius glare—“ Emily cheerfully pointed out. House sent an eyebrow up and let his gaze settle on 
James, who shrugged.

 

“Forewarned is forearmed,” he confessed. House shot him a withering look.

 

“As opposed to foreplay?” he managed in a sotto whisper to his colleague. Fortunately, Emily’s attention had shifted to the fruit basket, and she studied it.

 

“Someone working on a vitamin C study?”

 

“Oh orange YOU clever--” House dryly punned. Wilson sighed, and gently nudged Emily’s 
elbow.

 

“Come on, he’s obviously trying to live up to the reputation I told you about. Let’s go see about 
our office.”

 

“Bye kids—have fun playing doctor—“ House called loudly to them as they slipped out the door. 
He toyed with the orange a moment longer, then limped over and gently set it back in the 
basket.

 

 With a sigh, he plucked the card off of it, and left his office, heading in the direction he’d been 
fighting all morning. As he approached Cuddy’s office, the heady scent of roses filled the air. 
He glanced in, stunned at the size of the bouquet that graced the coffee table. Carefully House 
pushed his way in, eyes on the huge arrangement.

 

“Oh he’s laying the gratitude is on thick today, isn’t he?” he spoke up mildly. Behind her desk, 
Cuddy looked up and blushed, fiddling with her pen.

 

“I’ll have some of the candy stripers take it apart and distribute it around—I feel like I’m in a 
funeral home with it sitting right there,” she admitted in a low voice. House cocked his head and fingered the card in his hand.

 

“I got fruit—with the team gone, you could probably pass that around too, or send it to the 
kitchens.” He didn’t look at her directly. She busied herself with the fascinating file in front of 
her.

 

“Um hmm.”

 

“So.”

 

“So.”

 

“So where IS our Yamahana tycoon and his trusted translator?”

 

“He’s back at his hotel, resting—we released him early this morning, so I hope he’ll take the day
off.” Cuddy murmured, aware of House moving towards her desk. He came around and leaned against the drawers on her left side, looking down at her. She shivered, turning her glance 
upward at him.

 

“Is there something I can do for you?” The minute the words left her mouth she regretted them. 
House stared down at her; she expected him to smile, or smirk, but he didn’t. Instead he 
sighed, softly.

 

“Yes. And I’m not talking about letting me out of clinic, or giving me a better parking space or 
my own table in the cafeteria. I think you know that.”

 

“House—“ Cuddy murmured, furious at herself for the reaction his words created, that warm 
giddy feeling in the pit of her stomach. For a moment they simply regarded each other, without 
the adversarial posturing they usually had. House broke the gaze first, glancing down at the 
cane he was twisting in his two hands.

 

“It felt good to kiss you.” He murmured, a little resentfully. “To be kissed in return, even. 
Considering I personally rank you up there with the Wicked Witch of the West, Hanta virus, over-prescription of antibiotics, soy milk and the missing sports sections of newspapers, that’s 
saying something.”

 

“Oh stop, my head’s spinning—“ Cuddy dryly shot back, glad to be on slightly familiar ground. 
Moving quickly, House shifted the handle of his cane so that it was just under her chin, tilting 
her face up to him.

 

“You kissed back, Cuddy.”

 

“So I kissed back, so what?”

 

“So there’s something wrong with that. Why isn’t there a man in your life already? You’re easy 
on the eyes—for a woman of your age,” he couldn’t resist needling. “ . . .  Smart, make a pretty 
good income, and haven’t shown any lesbian tendencies, my personal fantasies 
notwithstanding.”  Her eyes narrowed in embarrassed annoyance, but House continued, his 
voice low and compelling.

 

“I haven’t kissed anyone in over half a decade; so hey, my enthusiasm is understandable, but 
yours . . . either Myron hurt you badly, or Myron never did it for you, and either one of those assumptions means you’re in the same boat I am.”

 

Cuddy lifted her chin free of his cane and turned her head away. “This is a pointless 
conversation, and I’ll thank you to drop it.”

 

“Empty spaces on the mantle and in the closet, later hours at work, no dates. What the hell did 
he DO to get so completely erased from your life?” House ruthlessly probed. “Did he cheat on 
you?”

 

She turned, her eyes a bright flash of scorn and fury; the glare of them was unlike anything 
House had ever seen before and he leaned back, wary.

 

And aroused.

 

Cuddy deliberately took a controlling breath.

 

“You’re late for clinic duty, Doctor House,” she intoned, faint smudges of color on her high cheekbones. He stared at her a moment longer, puzzled, but undefeated. Slowly, he 
straightened up from his slouch against the desk, raising his head high.

 

The phone on her desk rang; impatiently Cuddy snatched it up.

 

“Yes?”

 

Her expression shifted; fascinated, House paused in his retreat to look at her. Panic, affection, concern all flickered across her face. She impatiently tried to wave House out.

 

 He ignored it, and leaned on his cane.

 

“Dad? Are you okay?” The voice of controlled fear and forced goodwill. House cocked his 
head, listening to the single side of the conversation. “Why are you calling me—oh. Oh? Oh 
Dad, no, no I’m NOT secretly engaged. NO! Not Myron for God’s sake! Dad—“

 

The faint baritone rumble broke into Cuddy’s protests, and she gritted her teeth. House came 
forward again, eyes bright and curious; Cuddy turned to avoid his penetrating gaze.

 

“Dad—this isn’t a good TIME for this, but no, I’m NOT engaged to anyone. I don’t care what Mr. Hinoshu told you—What a minute, Mr. Hinoshu called YOU?”

 

She glared up at House, as if this was somehow his fault; he gave an exaggerated shrug of 
innocence and parked himself once again against the desk, a fascinated audience of one.

 

Cuddy turned back to the low voice in her ear. “Yes he’s a very nice man . . . yes it’s been a 
long time since Pearl Harbor—Dad—Well he just has the wrong idea, that’s all. The man who 
saved him? He’s . . . .” Cuddy struggled hard for a second and gave in, “—He’s nice. Sort of, 
but NOT my type, no definitely NOT.”

 

House reached down and ran a finger along Cuddy’s padded shoulder experimentally. She tried 
to pull away, but the voice in the earpiece once again distracted her. “No please don’t tell Aunt 
Ruth or Grandma. It’s not fair to make them think . . . YOU know. I won’t do that to them 
again—“ She gave a little gasp as House’s index finger slid along her shoulder to touch the 
warm skin of her neck. For a moment she hesitated, shooting him a glare that did absolutely 
nothing; he studied her intently, then let the rest of his fingers stroke the delicate flesh just under Cuddy’s ear.

 

She moaned. Horrified, Cuddy bit her lips and lurched away from House, barking into the 
phone. “Dad, I have to go, but just trust me on this, I’m NOT engaged and Mr. Hinoshu is taking 
a social dinner and blowing it WAY out of proportion, okay? I’ll see you Sunday for chess, loveyoubye!”

 

Slamming the phone down, she turned a furious gaze up at House just as he swooped down 
and dropped a hard, firm kiss on her protesting mouth. Stunned, Cuddy shook a little, torn 
between anger and arousal, but House gave her no time to think. He flicked his tongue across 
the sensitive underside of her upper lip; helplessly she yielded to it, opening her mouth to his 
fervently. This time the flaring passion was undeniable. A few seconds later she yanked herself 
away, eyes big.

 

“Stop it! I WILL NOT let you do this to me here!”

 

House straightened up, eyes never leaving her face. He unconsciously licked his lower lip, and 
didn’t smirk. Carefully he pushed away from her desk and made his way across her office, 
passing the coffee table with the rose bouquet on it. He glanced back at Cuddy, cocking his 
head, his expression thoughtful.

 

“No you’re right.” He rumbled. “Not . . . here.”

 

And he swung out of her office as she watched him go.
 

 

 

“God it’s worse than I thought,” came Wilson’s lament as he and House rode the elevator to the garage that evening. “MUCH worse.”

 

“Oh give me a break—a gorgeous woman moves in with you, professionally speaking, and all 
you can do is BITCH about it?” House groused, leaning heavily on his cane. The last Vicodin 
had yet to kick in, and the throb of his thigh burned. Wilson turned to him, studying House 
carefully.

 

“Try not to overwhelm me with that hearty commiseration of yours, okay Greg? I don’t know if I 
could handle your concern.”

 

“You don’t want my empathy, you want my envy. You want me gnashing my teeth because I’M 
not getting a hottie installed in my office.”

 

“Well . . . “ Wilson dimpled,  “Yeah, pretty much.” He thought for a moment and added, 
“Cameron’s cute.”

 

House’s glance flickered from the elevator numbers overhead to Wilson and back again. 
“Going for a threesome? Seems a little excessive, even for a terminal player like you.”

 

The elevator dinged and stopped; Wilson looked mildly irritated. “I merely meant that you 
already have your OWN eye candy.”

 

House snorted as they stepped into the cool of the parking garage. “Eye candy? That’s 
politically incorrect AND coyly wimpy. If we’re going to denigrate our female co-workers, the 
least we can do is use serious terminology here. Our bitches, our poontang, our hoes—“ he 
rolled out dramatically as Wilson winced.

 

“And here I thought your sense of romance was dead—Geez, House, you kiss your mother 
with that mouth?”

 

No, I kiss Cuddy, in fact—House guiltily thought to himself as he shrugged. “Actually, I kiss 
YOUR mom, with lots of tongue.”

 

“Okay, THAT’S a nauseating image—and despite the vocabulary, I stand by my initial point, 
which is that you already have an attractive woman installed in your office.”

 

House held up a warning finger. “Ah-ah, that’s where I beg to differ with you. Not with the 
attractive part—Cameron’s got great bone structure and minty fresh breath, yes—but I’m not 
so sure I’d call her a woman. She’s . . . a girl.”

 

Wilson frowned at this assessment. “A girl. Despite all those years of medical school, all that education and experience—“

 

House shook his head as they approached Wilson’s BMW. “—Cameron still retains a belief 
that people follow the rules and that there are answers for everything. She looks for the best in everyone and has the audacity to get all trembly-lipped when she doesn’t find it.”

 

“Innocence,” Wilson observed mildly. “It can be very attractive.”

 

“In a girl. But not a woman,” House sighed. “Therefore, she isn’t one.”

 

Wilson unlocked his car and tossed his briefcase in. “And you don’t find the thought of having 
her shyly look at your erection like it’s the seventh wonder of the world at ALL appealing?”

 

“No, I’d rather have someone who KNOWS that it is. And the eighth. And ninth.”

 

“Jesus, the ego has landed. See you tomorrow, Doctor Tripod—“ Wilson snorted, climbing in 
and carefully driving away. House watched him go, smiling faintly, then glanced around the 
parking structure. He noted his own car, and several rows over in a labeled parking space, 
Cuddy’s dark green Jaguar. Agitatedly he thumped his cane, the rubber tip bouncing on the dirty concrete.

 

“Not here . . . but there—“ he muttered, feeling an odd hesitation. House examined it, turned it 
over in his mind and his frown deepened as he understood the complication now clouding the 
whole Cuddy issue. The lust was there still, the quick surface flood of remembered sensations undeniable, but through the haze of that lay a fundamental shift of perception. He was used to 
seeing Cuddy as the nemesis, and as the fantasy object, but the idea of seeing her as a 
person—

 

Unnerving.

 

And yet, she was. House had known it on an intellectual level; that the woman had a life outside 
of Princeton-Plainsboro as evidenced by the little touches: tennis togs, pictures on her desk, 
phone calls. Cuddy lived somewhere, ate and slept and laughed and cried somewhere, and now 
that he’d SEEN the place, it unsettled him.

 

It was easy to hold her at arm’s distance, mocking her in public, masturbating to her in 
private—but even as he flicked his tongue along the edges of his mouth House sighed. He 
turned and slowly got into his car, still lost in troubled thoughts all the way home.