Phone Call #5

She forced herself not to call him the next day, choosing instead to focus her energies on work that needed to be done around the house; she painted the guest room, a task she'd put off for far too long. She could have paid someone to do it, but Cuddy decided early Saturday morning that the work would be therapeutic, so she did it herself and she had to admit, as she stood back to admire the first coat of paint, that she enjoyed the process. Exhausted after applying a base coat and one coat of a muted tan, Cuddy settled in for a quick lunch of tomatoes, cucumbers and a handful of multigrain crackers.

After lunch, she drove to the garden supply store to pick up several containers of colorful annuals to line her front walkway. Though she resigned herself to keep from calling him, she made sure she had her cell phone with her, just in case he unexpectedly came to his senses. Arriving back home mid afternoon, she set to work planting the new flowers, enjoying the methodical process of scratching at the dirt and impregnating the ground with the flowers that would bloom for most of the summer.

It was late afternoon by the time she was done, and she glanced at both the cell phone and the house phone that lie perched on the protective drop cloth in the empty guest bedroom. Going against every ounce of reason, she willed herself not to call House, instead starting on the final coat of paint; she allowed her mind to go blank as she rhythmically painted the walls well past sunset. When she was finished, she peeled the tape from the windows and floorboards, balled up the plastic drop cloth that covered the precious hardwood floors and retreated to a long, hot bath to ease her sore muscles.

Cuddy stared at the glass light fixture she had removed from the guest room ceiling, which now sat on the kitchen table, waiting to be returned to its rightful place. She sipped at her soup, not really interested in eating and glanced at the clock. She was surprised to see it was well past eleven o'clock and she couldn't help but wonder if House had eaten dinner, or if he had chosen to drink himself to sleep that evening. Exhausted, she cleaned her dishes and picked up the light fixture, intent on seeing the newly painted room look compete; she had planned on finishing the room the following day, but Cuddy couldn't wait to see the room looking like she'd imagined for well over a year.

She yawned as she glanced around the guest room, pleased with the shade of paint. She pushed the dresser back into the room and replaced the drawers one by one. Next came the nightstand, the desk and chair and finally, she removed the plastic cover from the full sized bed and pushed it from the middle of the room so that the headboard was flush against the largest wall. Cuddy then plugged in the small clock and set it according to her watch, almost doing a double take at the time. One thirty in the morning and there she was, moving furniture. Greg House made her do some odd things, she decided.

She placed the new sheets and comforter on the bed, hung the new curtains and finally picked up the very last item that would complete the room. Standing on the desk chair in the center of the room, and grasping the phillips head screwdriver in one hand and the light fixture in the other, Cuddy stepped up onto the desk chair. With both hands overhead, she struggled trying to fix the first screw in place; it certainly seemed a great deal easier to take down the light fixture than it was to put it back up.

"Come on," she said in frustration, her arms now shaking from exhaustion.

She leaned just a bit further, trying to angle the screwdriver a bit better when her foot slipped. The screwdriver went flying first, landing near the closet. Cuddy came crashing down as the chair tipped out from under her, and with her left hand flailing, she inadvertently smashed the light fixture, sending shards of glass flying. In the blink of an eye, she found herself crumpled on the floor and felt a fast rising lump just above her right temple.

Stunned, Cuddy sat perfectly still, unsure if she could or should move. She reached for the nightstand, hoping she had enough strength to reach the phone. Cuddy very shakily picked up her cell phone, hoping he would answer.

The phone rang several times, and just as Cuddy prepared to leave a message, he picked up, "I thought I told you not to call me anymore. It's," he paused, "It's two a.m."

Cuddy did her best to stay conscious, "House, I…"

His anger mounted, "I TOLD you. Leave. Me. Alone."

Cuddy took several deep breaths, trying to stay conscious, "House, I…"

And with dawning realization, his tone eased, "Cuddy?"

"I," she rasped, "Fell."

"Where are you?"

"Hit my head."

"Where are you?" he asked more insistently.

"Home," she fought to stay conscious, "I know you said you wouldn't be there, but…"

House tried to keep her talking, "Cuddy? CUDDY?" House shouted into the phone, "Stay with me." His words haunted him as he recalled saying the very same not all that long ago and in that instant, he decided that he'd be damned if he'd let her die too.

He scrambled for his keys and slammed his fist down in anger on the kitchen counter top, realizing that the keys to both his car and his motorcycle were at her place. House searched his wallet and pockets for cash and swore at what he found; six dollars and thirty two cents wouldn't be nearly enough for a cab. He wondered who he should call. Chase and Cameron were at the hospital, working the same shift. He couldn't call his team. Hadley had quit, Foreman was at a neurology conference in Florida and both Taub and Kutner had taken two weeks' vacation in House's absence; they weren't set to return until mid week.

"Cuddy, name all the carpal bones for me," he said, trying to keep her conscious.

"Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can't Handle."

House chuckled at the mnemonic device, "Okay, start listing them."

Cuddy fought to keep her eyes open, "Scaphoid."

"Good," House said as he searched for the house phone.

He pursed his lips, not wanting to call his former best friend. House sighed, hoping that Wilson's friendship with Cuddy was strong enough to put up with a short ride to the hospital with the man who killed his girlfriend. He used the house phone to dial Wilson, simultaneously setting his cell phone to speaker, to listen for Cuddy.

He knew not to expect an answer and was not surprised when the machine picked up, "Wilson," House paused, hating the audible tension in his voice, "Pick up."

He waited. Nothing on Wilson's end, though he did hear Cuddy say, "Lunate."

"What's next?" he asked her.

Setting the cell phone back down, he focused on Wilson, "Pick up dammit!" House was now very much aware of the desperate note of anger in his voice that he couldn't seem to control.

"I know you hate me right now, but I need a ride. Cuddy's nearly unconscious and alone, something about a fall," he tried to be concise, and he tried to explain why he needed the ride, though he wasn't sure if he was making himself absolutely clear, "She took my keys."

He paused again, hoping, waiting. Nothing.

Angry, he shouted, "Fine. I'll take the damned bus." He slammed the receiver down and headed towards his bedroom to change out of his pajamas.

"Cuddy? What's next?"

"Can't keep my eyes open," Cuddy said just above a whisper.

"Hey, come on now. What's next? Even you know this stuff. Scaphoid, lunate, tri..."

"Triquetrium."

"Good, keep going."

He threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, grabbed his vicodin bottle and pulled an old, leather medical bag from the closet.

"Cuddy, come on. What's next? Triquetrium, then what?"

House then grabbed his leather jacket, his wallet and his cell phone, pocketed the six dollars and limped out the door. He descended the stairs outside his apartment and looked up at the sound of tires screeching to a halt in front of him.

The passenger side window rolled down and Wilson called out, "Get in."

House stood motionless for a fraction of a second, surprised to see him there and then as if it was something he did every day, he tossed the cane into the front seat and took his position, shotgun.

"Cuddy?" he half shouted into the cell phone.

He thought twice about looking directly at Wilson, but curiosity got the better of him, chanced a glance and was surprised at what he saw. Wilson was soaked to the bone; his hair was sopping wet and his clothes clung to his skin, damp with moisture.

"You're all wet."

Wilson raised an eyebrow, but kept his eyes on the road, "I see your head injury hasn't affected your observation skills."

"Cuddy?" he shouted again. House looked at Wilson, "It's been nearly five minutes since she said anything. Give me your cell, I'm calling an ambulance."

"House, we'll get there before the ambulance can be dispatched. Keep trying."

House faced forward, trusting his friend's words. "You came."

Wilson hesitated as he pulled up to a stoplight and then glanced at House. He sighed deeply, "Don't I always?"

House met his gaze, pausing momentarily as he thought about the past month, and very honestly answered, "No."

Wilson nodded guiltily, "I'm here now."

"Cuddy? Come on, triquetrium, then comes pisi..." Again, no answer. House turned his attention to Wilson, "You didn't answer the phone."

"Apparently your observation skills are still intact, but your deductive reasoning skills took a hit," Wilson deadpanned. "I was in the shower when you called."

"At two in the morning?"

"I was on call; hazards of being an oncologist. Projectile vomit warrants a shower regardless of the hour."

House scrunched his face up in disgust and nodded.

"What happened to her?"

"Something about a fall. She called me and passed out. That's all I know."

"Cuddy?" House called out again.

The two sat in silence for several minutes, neither sure of what to say to the other.

Wilson finally broke the silence, "Are you two, you know, still together?"

House looked over at Wilson and shrugged. He lowered his voice, unsure of the true answer, "Does it matter?"

Wilson looked back at his friend, "No, I guess not."

House leaned his elbow against the window and rested his forehead in his hand, pressing at his temples.

Wilson looked over to House, "She'll be okay."

House looked at Wilson and nodded and the pair of them suddenly looked down at his cell phone, "House?" Cuddy whispered.

"I'm on my way. What were you listing before you blacked out?"

"Carpal bones. I was on pisiform. You can't drive here."

"I'm not. How bad are the lacerations?"

"Not bad. How did you…?" She sounded confused, "I have your car keys."

"House glanced at Wilson briefly, "My trusty chauffeur picked me up."

She didn't respond.

"Cuddy?" House asked.

Cuddy tried to gather her thoughts, fighting to stay conscious, "Wilson?"

"I'm here," Wilson smiled, "We'll be there in two minutes. How badly are you hurt?"

She sighed, "Hit my head and…," again, silence on her end of the line.

"Cuddy? And what?" House asked.

"My hand needs stitches."

"Hang in there," Wilson said reassuringly. He looked to House as he said it, hoping his words comforted not only Cuddy, but House as well.

Wilson pulled into the driveway and before he could shut the engine off, House was halfway to the front door. As he entered her home, House called out Cuddy's name several times, stopping briefly to listen. Hearing a faint voice from the end of the hallway, he limped as quickly as he could towards the guest room.

"You're here," she whispered, relief flooding her eyes when he appeared at the doorway.

House shook his head as made his way to her side, "If you really wanted to see me, you didn't have to knock yourself unconscious to get my attention. Showing up at my apartment topless, would have worked just fine."

Cuddy squeezed his hand faintly, "I'll try to remember that next time." House ran a brief neurological exam, checking her pupil reflexes first.

Wilson appeared at the doorway, "Why didn't you call an ambulance?"

"I thought…," Cuddy placed her hand to her head, grimacing, "I was okay."

Wilson walked around House, and kneeled down on the opposite side of Cuddy, and examined her hand. House examined a small laceration just below her neck and above her right breast.

Wilson looked at House, "This needs to be flushed and sutured. How bad is that one?"

"It's superficial, but it should be stitched."

Wilson stood, "Think you can stand?"

She nodded, "I think so."

House and Wilson stood on either side of her, helping her to stand, each supporting as much of her weight as possible. Cuddy gripped House's arm tightly with her good hand, feeling somewhat lightheaded.

"Don't pass out on me," House said, as the two men helped her to her bedroom.

"I'm trying not to."

Wilson eyed the bump on her head, "We should get a CT scan."

"No, I'm fine."

They helped her to the bed and House picked up her injured hand as Cuddy held her breath. Examining it, he said, "We can't stitch this here, it needs to be irrigated and I don't have the tools I need." House looked up at Wilson and hoped he would use his super oncologist powers to read his mind.

Wilson looked at the wound, knowing House had everything he needed in the bag he had brought. He looked at his friend briefly and turned to Cuddy saying, "House is right and if we're going to be there anyway, we may as well run a CT scan." House nodded in approval.

Cuddy looked back and forth between the two men and sighed, "Fine time for you two to make up."

House cleaned and sutured Cuddy's wounds as Wilson ensured Cuddy's double room remained a private one. House said nothing as he worked on her hand, instead focusing on small, precise stitches and Cuddy was content to let him work.

When he placed the last stitch in the gash on her chest, he nodded, "Looks like you'll live."

"You do nice work," Cuddy said appreciatively as she looked up at him, "But you missed a spot."

House furrowed his brow, "Where?"

Cuddy pointed towards her mouth with a smile, "Here."

A corner of his mouth turned up, "And I'm supposed to kiss it better?"

She nodded, "That thought did cross my mind."

House sported a wry smile, "I like it when you're hopped up on drugs." He glanced up at the glass wall somewhat self-consciously and then leaned down and very tenderly, kissed her.

When he pulled back, she looked up at him, "You're forgiven."

Saying nothing, he smiled a bit sheepishly as his snarky comeback faded before it reached his tongue.

"Wilson's here for you."

"Because of you."

"No, he's here because you needed him."

"He's here on a guilt trip."

Cuddy rolled her eyes, "You don't believe that. He's here because he's your friend." House remained quiet.

She squeezed his hand and both turned at the sound of Wilson's voice, "Hey," he said from the doorway.

She cocked an eyebrow, "Let's go. We can do the CT on Monday. I'm fine."

"Four car pile up trumps stupid administrators who bump their heads; sleep until the CT's available, you're not going anywhere," House said as he sat on the edge of her bed.

"But…"

Wilson yawned, "It's four in the morning; House can't drive and I'm too tired. Get some sleep."

"And what about the two of you?"

Wilson looked over at House, "We need to talk."

Wilson handed a cup of coffee to House and the two sat silently in the cafeteria for nearly twenty minutes; despite the month long rift and previous avoidance between the two, each felt oddly at ease.

House finally looked up, watching as Wilson mindlessly swirled the remnants of his coffee with a stir stick and asked, "Why?"

Wilson stopped stirring and sat motionless, weighing his words carefully, "Life is too damned short."

"And you just decided this now? It took this?"

"We weren't exactly talking."

"Well, let's see. I seem to recall being unable to speak because I was in a COMA."

Wilson dropped his gaze guiltily, "I know."

"You're better off."

"What?" Looking up from his coffee, Wilson furrowed his brow, "How can you say that? Amber and I had a good…"

"Not talking about her."

Wilson looked at him quizzically, "You think I'm better off without you."

"Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner."

Wilson's eyes were suddenly moist, though no tears fell, "I need you to do something for me. I need you to forgive me."

House could hear the blood rushing through his ears, the pounding audible with each heartbeat. He had no idea how this man, this best friend of a man, could sit there with such a calm demeanor. House just shook his head in disbelief.

Wilson observed House, and what he feared most suddenly appeared to be happening. He watched House shake his head and Wilson's heart dropped, "I understand if you can't forgive me."

House placed his elbows on the table between them and rested his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes and continuing to shake his head, he said, "Stop." Wilson's hand rubbed at his own neck, trying to ease the knot that had seemingly formed instantly.

"You're a masochist, you know that?"

Wilson's head shot up, having heard the unmistakable, almost playful sarcasm in House's voice.

"I killed your girlfriend and here you are, begging for my forgiveness."

"I nearly killed you and then left you to rot. Who's the masochist here? You willingly got into my car, assuming I had only good intentions and if you'll recall, seems I've dosed your coffee before. You didn't even look twice at that cup."

This time, House's head shot up to meet Wilson's gaze, "What did you put in my coffee?" he asked, somewhat alarmed.

Wilson cocked an eyebrow and smiled, "Sugar." House sat back in his chair and half chuckled in relief while shaking his head.

Wilson downed the last of his cold coffee, "I've missed this."

"What, torturing me?"

Wilson smiled sadly, "You."

The two sat silently for several minutes, the weight of that thought hanging in the air.

House looked him directly in the eye and pursed his lips, silently agreeing. "What took you so long?" Wilson knew this was House's version of an apology, and he gratefully accepted it.

Wilson raised both his eyebrows, "You could have picked up a phone too, you know." He stared down at his hands and sighed, "I needed time to think," Wilson meet House's gaze and watched as House nodded silently before continuing. "I wanted to stop by a few days after you were home, but a certain administrator told me you weren't exactly in the best of moods. She suggested I wait until you came to your senses. After the phone call tonight, I decided if I waited that long, we'd both be dead and buried."

House chuckled again, shaking his head, "She slapped a nurse on me and she took my keys."

"I would have taken your keys too. So, was the nurse at least good looking?"

"If you consider a sixty year old, two hundred pound former shot putter a dream date, well then…"

Wilson grimaced, "Cuddy was worried about you."

"Yeah, well now it's my turn."

Wilson sat up straight in his chair, "Are my ears ringing? Did the greatest curmudgeon of all time just…no, it's not possible. Did you just admit concern for another human being?"

House pointed to his scalp, "Massive head injury; I'm not in my right mind. And actually, my ears are ringing, tinnitus; lovely souvenir courtesy of the seizure."

Wilson's face fell slightly, and with a month's worth of catching up to do, he said, "Tell me how you've been."

The two men walked in step with one another down the corridor at dawn, very much aware of the glances and whispers of the early morning staff members as they passed. The pair strolling together through the halls of PPTH was a sight not seen since before the accident.

"I feel like we're on parade," Wilson said, motioning his head towards several nurses at the end of the hall.

House held up his cane up diagonally, pumping it up and down as if leading a parade, "Oooh, I'll be Harold Hill and you can be Winthrop, unless you want to be Marian."

"Afraid I don't have a dress. There's always Marcellus."

"Nah, you're too thin."

Wilson shook his head, smiling, "I'll go check on the CT schedule."

House nodded, "Meet you in Shelob's lair."

"I thought we were in a boy's band, not stuck in a spider's web."

House pointed to his head, "Massive head injury, film metaphors tend to get mixed up."

Wilson smiled, "Well Frodo, I'll be back in time to save you from Shelob."

"See you there, Sam."

Wilson walked down towards the imaging room, and smiling inwardly, he whispered, "Well, I'm back."

"Are you in any pain?"

Cuddy shook her head and closed her eyes briefly, "No. What's in that IV?"

"Just a little bit of the good stuff."

"You gave me morphine?"

House rolled his eyes, "Maybe," in a mocking voice he said, "Do you know how many days this has taken off my life? A month at least."

Cuddy smiled at him, "Now you know how it feels."

"What were you doing at two in the morning?"

"I'll tell you later," she said, struggling to keep her eyes open. "Are you and Wilson talk…," Cuddy fell asleep before she could finish her question, the burst of morphine House administered having kicked in.

House looked down at her and nodded, "Thanks to you."

House sat with Cuddy for several hours, monitoring her vitals, her pain level and watching her sleep. He and Wilson took turns sleeping on the empty bed next to her. Around ten on Sunday morning, Wilson woke to find House asleep in the chair next to her, his feet propped up on Cuddy's bed.

He shook House's shoulder, "You look like hell." Wilson stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at House, "I've got a spare sweatshirt in my locker. Why don't you go shower and change? The CT should be available by the time you get back."

House pursed his lips, silently admitting he was exhausted and said, "When I come back, tell her to stop tapping on the glass."

"Huh?"

"Just tell her."

Despite being confused, Wilson agreed.

House returned freshly showered and found Cuddy awake, sitting up in her bed with Wilson at her bedside. On his way in, House stopped outside of the glass partition, slightly cupped his hands and placed them on either side of his face, palms facing in. He sucked in his cheeks to make a fish face and waved his hands a bit near his face.

Wilson looked over at Cuddy, "I think this is when I'm supposed to tell you to stop tapping the glass."

Cuddy began laughing, looked at Wilson, and smiled, "The two of you talking again is better than morphine."

Wilson looked down at his hands, and shook his head, "I can't lose him too. Took me a while to figure that one out."

"He may not say it, but he knows how much you've lost."

Wilson nodded, knowing her words were true. He half chuckled, "Look at him," Wilson pointed towards House, who stood arguing with a nurse just outside the door, trying to take a fistful of red suckers as the nurse tried to stop him, "He's always going to be House."

"And we're always going to love him for it."

"Sometimes I wonder if the feeling's mutual."

She watched Wilson for a moment, noting how tired he looked, "We don't get the big romantic gestures, or the kind words, the hugs or the praise from him. We get the real House; the one he doesn't show to anyone else. We get his smile, his fierce loyalty and once in great while, he lets his guard down and shows us just how deep his feelings run."

Wilson looked at her with admiration, "He's lucky to have you."

Cuddy grinned, "Try telling him that," Wilson returned her smile as she continued, "No matter what he says, or how asinine his behavior is, he's always here, Wilson." Cuddy paused, not sure if she should delve into the past, "He was at the funeral."

He looked at her puzzled, "I didn't see him."

"He sat in the back, didn't want to intrude. Kutner took him home immediately afterwards."

"I had no idea," Wilson whispered, gazing at his friend who continued to argue with the nurse in the hallway. He turned his attention back to Cuddy, "You should have heard him last night. He's never sounded so scared," Wilson shook his head, "When I didn't pick up, he threatened to take the damned bus and you know, I think he meant it."

Cuddy closed her eyes, "He probably would have."

House finally quit arguing with the nurse and walked into the room, carrying several suckers. He nodded at Wilson before looking up towards the television, "What is that?"

"America's Got Talent. I taped it the other night and thought Cuddy might enjoy it," Wilson said defensively.

"You keep a copy of America's Got Talent in your office?"

"So? You keep Prescription Passion in yours."

"They should rename it America's Got Delusions."

Wilson raised his eyebrows as he chuckled, silently admitting House might be right. "Is the imaging room free yet?" he asked.

House popped a sucker into his mouth, "Yep."

Wilson stood from the chair, "I'll grab a wheelchair," he said.

"Oh no you don't. You're staying," Cuddy weakly motioned for him sit down, "I have something to say and you're both going to hear it."

"Here it comes," House said, rolling his eyes in Wilson's direction. Wilson smiled.

Cuddy looked at them both, "If I had known that this is what it would take to get the two of you talking again, I would have smashed that light fixture a long time ago."

House placed his hand on his forehead and dragged it down the side of his face, "Well, thanks for your selfless contribution."

"Not funny," Wilson said, smile now missing.

"What were you doing at two in the morning?" House asked, sitting down on the edge of her bed. Wilson decided he wanted to hear the story too, and resumed his seat in the chair.

"I was angry, so I painted the guest room. I planned on finishing the room on Sunday, but I couldn't wait to see it finished; the last thing I had left to do was to re-hang the light fixture on the ceiling. I lost my balance, smashed the light and wound up here."

Cuddy stared at House and she clearly saw the guilty look he was trying so hard to hide. She reached for his hand, and to her surprise, he allowed her to hold him. She gave a little squeeze, saying, "This isn't your fault." House said nothing, but she could still see the lingering ravages of doubt etched on his face, "You made me angry enough to paint. That's it. I chose to hang that light fixture. I chose to do it when I was beyond tired. I chose to see what the room would look like finished. It was something I was looking forward to. Hanging that light had nothing to do with you; I wanted to see the room finished."

House nodded and watched as she shifted painfully, "I can up your pain meds," he said.

She shook her head, "Not yet."

"If you're in pain…"

"Not until after the CT." Cuddy turned her attention to Wilson, "Will you let my assistant know that I'm taking a few days off?"

"Cuddy," Wilson said, "Don't worry about this hospital. We'll take care of it."

"That's reassuring. If I left this hospital up to the two of you, there wouldn't be one to come back to." Cuddy yawned, growing more tired by the minute. Dr. Thompson in pediatrics is acting dean in my absence. He needs to be informed. Wilson, do me a favor."

"Sure, anything."

"House can't drive for another week, but he starts work...tomorrow? What day is it?" she shook her head, "He starts back on Monday."

"I'm perfectly fine," House grunted.

"Don't worry about it, I'll make sure he's here bright and early every day," Wilson said with a smile.

House looked at Cuddy, "This is your revenge, isn't it?"

She smiled, "Yep. I know the best way to get back at you is to make sure you're taken care of. Just call me the wicked witch of the west." Yawning, she looked at the men, "Let's get this over with, so I can go home."

"Give me that," House said, snatching the scan from Wilson. He scrutinized it meticulously.

Wilson helped Cuddy back into the wheelchair, "House, she's fine. Just a mild concussion."

House continued to study the scan carefully, not taking his eyes off of it. "You can never be too careful," he said, almost absentmindedly, "Wouldn't want anything to happen to our precious administrator here, now would we?"

"And apparently I'm not qualified to read a CT scan?"

"Wilson, we all know you're a brilliant oncologist, but this is a delicate matter. Can't risk a misdiagnosis. I'd hate to break in a new dean; took me years with this one."

Wilson looked at Cuddy and she returned his smile knowingly.

"Doctor Cuddy, it's good to have you back," a nurse said as Cuddy walked into the hospital nearly a week after her accident. She continued on to her office, waving and chatting briefly to several staff members along the way.

She draped her jacket on the hook inside her office, walked over to her desk and sat down in her chair. She swiveled from side to side a bit, unable to keep the smile from her face. It was good to be back. Cuddy brought her computer to life, thumbed through the dozen messages left to her by Dr. Thompson, her temporary replacement, and checked her phone messages. As she began to rifle through her emails, Cuddy was startled when a certain cane stomped on top of her desk.

She rolled her eyes, "House."

One corner of his mouth shot up in a wry smile as he leaned over her desk, overtly peering down her top, "Well, it's good to see the twins are back."

"My top's not that low."

"Only because you're trying to hide your sutures. Maybe I should check it again; make sure it's healing."

"You checked it last night. It's healing just fine," she said, smiling up at him. "You have clinic hours this afternoon."

House rolled his eyes, "You've been back for all of ten minutes and you're moaning about clinic hours already?"

"Admit it, you're glad I'm back."

House leaned over the desk so that he was nearly nose to nose with her, "Only because Thompson's a pansy."

She raised an eyebrow, "Why's that? Too afraid to put you in your place?"

"He was too easy, no challenge at all."

"So you do admit it."

"Admit what?"

"You missed me."

"How could I miss you? I saw you every day you were gone and you nagged me about clinic hours every chance you got."

"Come on, admit it."

He closed the last inch between the two of them, kissed her fully on the mouth and whispered, "Never." He stood back up, and before he turned to leave, House gave her one of his elusive, genuine smiles. And Cuddy's heart leapt.

Fin.