So House had broken down and decided to see a psychiatrist. A psychiatrist in New York. That bit of news hit Cuddy like a sucker punch. And he didn't bother to tell her. That bit of news didn't surprise her, actually. But it did disappoint her a little.

She thought he trusted her by now, that he would know she would never tell anyone that he had decided it was time to bite the bullet and see a shrink. Hell, she would have gladly paid for the damn treatment herself if he had told her. Of course his insecurities had to rear their ugly heads and compel him to go behind her back. It was better than nothing, she supposed, but it still burned.

He had gone to bed early, claiming he had had a tiring day. Cuddy didn't argue with him. Considering all the scrapes and bruises that covered him, he had the right to use the excuse. She made a mental note to make sure he didn't use his wounds to try and weasel some extra Vicodin from her or Wilson. Still, she knew the real reason he went to bed early--to avoid talking to her. He didn't want her to lecture him. She wasn't going to, but she decided to let him think she was for now. Both of us needed some time to think and a little breathing room to do it.

She helped herself to some of his bourbon and sat down at the kitchen table. She looked into the amber liquid. It looked right back her, but didn't offer any answers.

What possessed House to seek out some help now? He seemed to be his usual cranky self. Nothing much had changed since they got together. Could that be the reason…because they did get together? Was House having doubts about being in a relationship with his boss? No, that couldn't be it. House couldn't care less, and he'd laugh in the face of anyone who had the gall to tell him how 'wrong' it was. Yes, I am a shameless bastard. Yes, I am living in sin, he'd say, and I'm loving every minute of it!

Something at the hospital bothering him? Probably not. He was enjoying torturing his new team just as much as the old team. None of that ever caused him to lose any sleep. He lived to see how far he could push them until they pushed back. A patient? Nope. They were distant memories the second he figured them out. Nine times out of ten he couldn't be bothered to learn their names, let alone let one of them haunt him to the point of seeking therapy.

So if it wasn't something in the here and now, it was something from the past. His past had caught up with him and he couldn't deal with it by himself.

What the hell was it? What was so terrible that he had sought help from an hour away? More Daddy issues? Maybe some Mommy issues thrown in for good measure? Something else entirely? Good question. Too bad that stubborn bastard wouldn't tell her.

She finished her drink and rinsed out the glass. Dirty dishes from House's earlier meals were still stacked in the sink. She wouldn't be able to sleep knowing they were in there, so she washed them too. Just like he knew she would. Maybe she was becoming too predictable for her own good. She found herself wondering how the hell he managed to make it on his own for so long without a dishwasher or someone like her around to wash the damn things for him as she scrubbed some cemented oatmeal from a bowl.

The light from the hall illuminated the room enough. He was on his side, one arm stretched over the edge of the bed as if he had been trying to grasp something just out of his reach. For a moment she thought he was just pretending to be asleep so he wouldn't have to talk to her. She stood in the doorway, waiting for him to make the first move, to finally get fed up and say something. But he didn't. He was asleep, his breathing slow and steady.

She took a shower, brushed her teeth, put on one of his t-shirts and shuffled back to the bedroom. Back to the bed they had been sharing for several months now. He hadn't moved a muscle. She climbed in carefully, then pulled the blankets up to her chin and closed her eyes.

"Are you still mad at me?" House asked without bothering to turn around.

"How long have you been awake?," she inquired.

"The shower woke me up. Are you still mad at me?"

"I'm not mad at you." It was the truth.

"And you lie like a rug."

"I'm not mad at you, " She repeated with a sigh, hoping it would sink in. "Were you ever going to tell me about the shrink, House?"

A few beats of silence, then he replied, "I was weighing the pros and the cons."

"Which weighed more?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

"The cons."

"Why do you think that?"

"I'd rather not talk about that right now, if you don't mind."

"We'll talk about it tomorrow morning."

"We'll talk about it when I'm damn good and ready."

Cuddy asked, "When will that be?"

"When I say it is and not one second sooner."

"Turn around, House."

"No."

Dear God, the man could be frustrating. It was amazing she hadn't yet banged a hole in the wall with her head.

"Fine," she said, and spooned up behind him and planted a soft kiss on the back of his neck. "How's this? Any objections?"

"Nope." He chuckled, then took her hand. "You smell nice and clean. Been using that cucumber-melon bodywash again?"

That was what he wanted all along. He wasn't going to look at her, so she had to go and look at him. To do that, she had to get closer to him. Making sure things turned out in his favor, no matter the situation. Just another one of his mind games. Thankfully it was one she didn't mind losing.

"How did you wreck your motorcycle?" she asked, threading her fingers through his.

"Took a corner too fast."

"Where is your motorcycle?"

"Getting fixed."

"How's your arm? Does the bandage need to be changed?"

"I need you to quit talking so much, quit worrying so much and go to sleep," he replied. "But I know I'm only going to get two out of three."

"You can't always get what you want, House."

After some time he finally turned over to face her. "Neither of us can, Cuddy. Maybe someday we'll both realize that."