Raising the Bar
by kimbari

1.

"I don't like this bar," Cuddy complained, dodging flying peanut shells.

House rolled his eyes. "Well what did you expect?" he said. "It's a dive."

"Fine place for a first date," she said, glaring. "Practically guarantees it'll be the last."

"Oh, you're just mad because they don't have your favorite Chablis."

"It's not a rare wine."

"It's rare in this joint," House said. His attention was momentarily drawn to an argument of steadily increasing volume between two men over the validity of a pool shot. "Hey!" he hollered at them. "People trying to get laid over here!"

"House!" Cuddy hissed. An attractive flush of embarrassment burnished her cheeks.

House eyed her approvingly. He pointed at her glass with his chin. "Drink your beer."

Cuddy gave him a withering look and delicately sipped at her mug.

"Oh, come on, Cuddy!" he said. "Quit pretending you're a frail flower. I've seen you knock back a water glass of good scotch without blinking an eye." A wadded paper napkin landed on the table. House lobbed it back in the direction it came from.

Cuddy gave him another nasty look, which had about as much effect on him as the first one. A crowd had gathered at the pool table; voices rose.

"Hey!" House turned and yelled again. "Don't make me come over there..."

"Screw you, asshole!" A burly guy wearing a Big Johnson t-shirt stepped out of the pool table crowd and stared malevolently at them.

House cringed and looked away. "Touchy, aren't they?"

"Can we leave now?" Cuddy said plaintively.

"Fine," he said, pretending to be unaware of the reason Cuddy might not think that Sharrie's Bar on a Friday night (free drinks for the ladies!) was the place to be. "You pick the place next time."

"What makes you think there's going to be a next time?"

2.

"You couldn't iron that shirt?" Cuddy said. She sounded disgruntled, despite her pleasant expression. The place was popular and therefore crowded... and hot. Lightly misted by the dew of her own perspiration, she wore black velvet and diamonds and hoped she looked as "hot" as she felt.

"You're lucky I'm wearing a tie," House grumbled, running a finger along the inside of his collar. The hotness of Lisa Cuddy had been duly noted, but he refused to pay her the compliment. She might get the crazy idea that he liked her.

"Yeah," Cuddy said irritably. "I'm counting my blessings, here." Her shoes were tight, her bustier pinched, she wondered if she had entered perimenopause. So this is what a hot flash feels like. And to top it off, she was on the town with House who was, true to his nature, acting like a cranky child. Cuddy reflected that she must have been high when she consented to another date with him. However, long experience in dealing with patients, employees, hospital board members, and Gregory House had given her a knack for handling cranks. So, when the waiter signaled that their table was ready, Cuddy reached behind her, clasped House's hand and pulled him along. Act like a little brat and I'll treat you like one, she thought grimly.

Instead of embarrassing her by making a show of escaping her clutches, his long fingers curled around hers confidingly. Cuddy looked up at him, surprised.

House didn't notice; he was busy surveying his surroundings.

The place was all linen and crystal, the ritzy kind of establishment that only a hospital administrator could love. It made him antsy. It made him want to commit a social atrocity just to get the air moving. (Napkin tits came immediately to mind.) The thought of napkin tits put a smile on his face until he looked at Cuddy. Judging by her expression, she'd read his mind.

"Don't even think about it," she said, her voice pitched solely for his ears.

"Think about what?" he said, looking innocent. Fortunately, they had reached their table. The white-gloved waiter pulled both their chairs out, then handed Cuddy the wine list.

"Aren't you supposed to give that to the guy?" House asked, oblivious to his dinner partner's glare.

The waiter ignored him.

"He might have if you'd ironed your shirt," Cuddy murmured, eyes on the menu.

House looked at the waiter, who raised a single eyebrow at him, then returned his attention to Cuddy. House made a show of straightening his tie and clearing his throat, and assumed a bored expression until Cuddy finished her consultation with the waiter. "Very good, Madame," the waiter said, then departed. House watched him go.

"The waiters pay attention to my shirt... right," he scoffed.

"They pay attention to your shoes, too," Cuddy said, sneaking a mirror and a tissue out of her tiny purse. She peered into the mirror, dabbing at the beads of sweat at her hairline. "Thank God you decided to wear leather or we never would have gotten in."

"Adidas clashes with my suit," House grumbled. He watched her for a moment. "I wonder what they think about you shvitzing all over the place. I didn't think you were old enough for hot flashes."

Cuddy paused in her dabbing to direct yet another killing stare his way. She replaced the mirror and tissue in her purse, snapped it closed and laid it on the table, exchanging her murderous look for one of pleasant blandness. House scowled.

"I don't know why I let you talk me into this," he muttered.

"Because you want to get laid," Cuddy said. "...without having to spend a lot of cash," she added, frosting her snark with a sweet smile.

"I'm starting to think I'd be better off spending the cash."

"If you thought that, you wouldn't be here."

"Aren't we overconfident," House mocked, as the waiter reappeared with two glasses and a bottle of wine. "Not to mention totally wrong." The waiter showed the label to Cuddy, who nodded approval. He decanted the wine with a practiced hand, then bowed himself away.

Cuddy swirled the wine in the glass, inhaled the bouquet, then took an experimental sip. Her face reflected her satisfaction with the vintage. "You really know how to sweet talk a girl, don't you?" she said absently.

House admired that face for a long moment before her remark registered. "I would if there were one present," he shot back. He slurped his wine, deliberately uncouth.

Cuddy sighed.

3.

Through what had to be an act of God, the two of them finally managed to find a place that they both liked. They liked it so much in fact, that Cuddy drank a little more than usual. She got so obviously inebriated that the bartender cut them off. This pissed off House and there ensued a loud and acrimonious argument which had ended with the bartender reaching beneath the bar and House grabbing Cuddy and exiting as fast as his two legs and one cane could carry him.

"You know, House, they must've had you in mind when they came up with the term 'bar-hopping'!" Cuddy said cheerfully, watching him move along the sidewalk as they made their way to the next watering hole. She was three-sheets to the wind and a happy sailor.

"I'd laugh if that was funny," House muttered. He caught the joke after it expired, still torqued about the disagreement with the bartender. He wasn't as pixilated as Cuddy, but he was feeling no pain and had wanted to continue doing so where he was. The two of them paused at the door of the next establishment. House looked in. "Too many people," he declared.

"People are the reason we go out, House," Cuddy said. The more she straightened, the crookeder she felt. "If you didn't want to be with people, you should've stayed home."

"I was staying home, until you came charging into my apartment yammering about this new bar. I had to leave to get you out."

"Well, it didn't work," Cuddy said smugly. She stared up at him, eyes not quite focused. He stared down at her and wondered why he always wanted to jump her when he looked into her eyes.

"It did work," House said. "You're out, aren't you?"

"So are you," Cuddy pointed out. "Therefore..."

"How do you know I wasn't going to go out, anyway?"

"This is a pointless argument." Cuddy waved it away a little too hard and lost her balance. House grabbed her arm before she could get up close and personal with the sidewalk. He continued to hold on to her, long after she had regained her balance.

"You can't even stand up straight," House said. "We should call it a night."

Cuddy pulled away from him. "I'm fine," she said calmly, then hiccupped. She pressed her fingers to her lips, eyes round.

"Right," said House dryly. "Say antidisestablishmentarianism."

"I can't say that when I'm not-drunk," Cuddy muttered.

"And you are so not not-drunk," House jeered.

"What?" Cuddy said. She tilted her head at House, who just stood there and grinned. "You know what?" she said. "I think we should call it a night..."

"Good idea," House said. He looked serious, but... was he? She wasn't sure she liked the way he was looking at her, as if she were not only amusing, but so delectable that he might devour her at any moment.

"I think I should go home," she said faintly. Her head had started a queasy thumping. "My car..."

"You're not getting behind the wheel, not as hammered as you are," House said. Cuddy stared at him, trying to think of an indignant response. He was laughing at her, she was sure of it. He didn't look like he was laughing, but she was certain he was rolling on the floor inside that pointy head of his.

"I am not hammered!" Cuddy declared, drawing herself up into her full five feet four inches. "And I sure as hell am not getting on a motorcycle with you!" She swayed a little and House chuckled. "What's so funny?" she growled, hoping she at least looked indignant.

She did not. "You," House said. "Drunk Cuddy trying to act sober is, by far, the best Cuddy I've ever seen."

"Ha-ha," Cuddy mocked him. "I would have to be reeaaallllly drunk to get on that motorcycle! The kind of drunk I'd have to be to get on that motorcycle with you..."

"We'll take a cab," House cut her off. He pulled out his cell phone and made the call.

A cab pulled up almost immediately. "How'd you get a cab so fas'?" Cuddy whined as he herded her toward the car. "Do you know people?" She hiccuped again, again put her hand to her mouth and looked embarrassed.

"It's okay," House reassured her. "Hiccups are common when..." He paused to smother a hiccup of his own. "...when you're plowed."

"I am not plowed," Cuddy retorted, then immediately made a liar of herself by stumbling over the curb.

"Just... get in the car..." House said. His sigh was long-suffering, but his expression was pleased. Coming attraction: Drunk Cuddy passed out on his couch.

He would never, ever, let her live this down!

4.

The quiet halls threw back the sound of her tapping heels as Cuddy made her last round through the hospital before going home. She passed Wilson's dark office, then House's war room. There was a light on in his office. She went to investigate.

The reading lamp on House's desk was lit, barely making a dent in the darkness. She paused at the glass door and stared in. House sat with his bad leg up on his desk, lost in thought. There was a bottle of scotch with a gold label, and a half-empty glass within reach of his hand. Cuddy entered the office and walked slowly to his desk.

"Didn't expect to find you still here," she said.

House raised his eyebrows. "Sure. That's why you came up here."

"I come up here every night, just to make sure you haven't destroyed the place."

"So devoted to your baby," House murmured, almost to himself. He reached for his glass and took a sip as Cuddy sat down in the chair in front of his desk. He pulled a drawer out, retrieved another glass and poured two fingers. Wordlessly he handed her the glass. She took it, considered it for a moment, then took a sip, relaxing against the back of the chair.

"Drinking on the premises," Cuddy observed. "Subject to fine and immediate dismissal." She smiled over the top of the glass as she took another sip of House's high-end scotch.

House held out both hands palms down, wrists touching. "Slap the cuffs on me."

"Nah, you'd like that too much."

"You're probably right." He subsided against his chair, his mind obviously back on the track it was running when she entered. A comfortable silence ensued.

"I'd ask you what you were thinking, but you might tell me," Cuddy murmured. She drank the last of her scotch and put the glass down. House immediately poured her another two fingers and topped off his own glass. She looked at him. "I'm driving," she reminded him.

"You're not a lightweight," House said. "I'm cycling and I'm ahead. It's fine."

"I'm also not you," Cuddy told him, pushing her glass in his direction. She had a muddy recollection of the last time she'd had a drink (or two, or ten) with House. She'd woken the next morning on his couch with the grandmother of all hangovers, vaguely disappointed that he hadn't tried to take advantage of her.

"Poor you," House responded, predictably. He hauled his leg up, off the desk and pushed his chair back. He stared at her for a long moment. She'd seen that look a lot, lately. It exhilarated her at the same time it made her nervous. His expression was that of someone who'd wanted something for so long, he'd almost forgotten that he wanted it. Almost. And now, it seemed as if he might get it after all.

He continued to stare, and Cuddy raised her eyebrows in inquiry. House pushed his chair back further, his eyes still on her. A slight change in them set off a sparkler in the pit of her stomach. Without a word he lurched to his feet, grabbed both glasses and limped to the door to the office's balcony. He nudged the door open with his hip and went outside.

House taking both glasses was obviously an invitation. Cuddy didn't think another drink was a good idea, but she wasn't ready to leave, not just yet. She followed him onto the balcony.

The night was quiet and deceptively warm; the kind of warm that would turn cold if you stayed out in it too long. Cuddy clutched her elbows, anticipating the change.

5.

House gazed at the few stars allowed by the light pollution of the Trenton metropolitan area.

Cuddy glanced upward, then back at House. "See anything?" Cuddy said.

"Yeah," House said. "Everything I can't see because the city is throwing off too much light."

She chuckled. "Now, that is a glass half empty statement if ever I heard one."

"I never thought of it that way," he mused, pulling his focus from the sky to the woman standing near him. He proffered her glass. Cuddy folded her arms, refusing to take it. "My hand's tired," he said softly. "If you don't take this, I'm going to drop it."

"Put it down," she said. She stared at him. He stared at her. They stared at each other long enough to know that the only one of them who was going to flinch was the one who always did. Cuddy took the glass from him.

She took a tiny sip, watching out the corner of her eye as he moved closer. He was now in her personal space. That sparkler flared again.

"It's cold out here," House murmured. "Are you cold?"

"I really should get going," Cuddy said.

"Don't change the subject," House said. "I'd hate for you to be cold. You could get sick. I'd hate that even more."

"No you wouldn't," she said. "You'd be cheering at the prospect of me at home in bed..." House smiled wolfishly. "Oh, hell," Cuddy muttered.

"The prospect of you in bed makes me very cheerful," House admitted. He took a sip of his drink and looked up at the stars again. "That ship might have sailed, but the world is round. You always end up back where you started."

She closed her eyes. He was way too close. He pulled her in, he always did. The iron in her was inexorably drawn to his magnetic north.

"Same longitude," Cuddy said softly. "Different latitude. We veered off course..."

"That was your fault..."

"That was my choice. I don't need to tell you what a very bad idea we are."

"That doesn't mean it's an idea without merit."

"That's exactly what it means, House." He'd put his glass on the ledge and taken her by the elbow, as if he were going to escort her... somewhere. Cuddy looked down at his hand, sensed the pressure of his fingers through her sweater, felt the warmth of them, of him.

"I never forgot that night." His voice was pitched so low she could barely hear it. "And I know you didn't forget, because I keep reminding you."

Cuddy smiled. "You weren't that great."

"Maybe not," House said, "but you were. And if I could just get in a little more practice..."

Cuddy laughed. "You never give up, do you?"

"Part of my charm," House said. "Will you shut up already and let me kiss you." He took her glass, set it beside his glass and pulled her close.

"What makes you think I want you to kiss me?" Cuddy said, breathless seconds before his lips descended upon hers.

They came down so softly, so gently, then pressed close as he tightened his hold on her. His tongue slid into her slightly open mouth and she felt such a jolt of electricity, such a charge, that a soft moan escaped her. The little sound encouraged him... he'd wanted this, wanted her, for so long. He backed against the ledge and gathered her against him, leaning down and pulling her up.

Cuddy thought of the time he'd squeezed her ass and how she'd smiled against his neck, tickled to be in his arms, for all that he was manhandling (House-handling?) her. He'd tried to follow her back to her bed, but the game hadn't yet played itself out. That was then, and this was... so good. Cuddy felt his hands wander over her, caressing her. She wanted this, too, yet she held her breath from habit. It had been a long time since she'd gotten through to the other side of this without being interrupted... usually by House. The fact that he was the one she was getting physical with... oh, God, have I ever kissed anyone who kissed like this? did nothing to quell her bad feeling. She pulled away.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly. His arms tightened around her, refusing to let so much as an air molecule between them.

"I don't know..." She forked a strand of hair out of her face and his demeanor changed.

"You're trying to talk yourself out of this," House said, in that hard, all-knowing way of his. It usually irritated her, but that was mitigated by the hurt coming off him.

"No," she told him. "I should but... I really should..."

"I don't want you to," he said. The softness was back, timorous but there. "You make me..." he started, then stopped. "I want you."

Cuddy closed her eyes. "It's not that simple," she whispered.

"It is exactly that simple, Cuddy," House said, and covered her mouth with his again. Again, she made that noise and they both knew that this night would end with them either wrapped around each other or on the other side of the biggest fight they'd ever had. Cuddy didn't feel like fighting, and House in her arms was anything but adversarial.

When he finally came up for air, the siege was over. Cuddy said, "My place?"

"My place," House said. "It's closer."

"I have to clear my desk," Cuddy said, peeling herself out of his arms. "I'll meet you there."

"Promise?" His tone told her everything she need to know about the rightness of her decision.

"Ask me that when I'm at your door," she said, smiling. She left his office and he watched her go, his eyes on his favorite (well, second favorite) part of her anatomy. He tipped his face up again to the stars. He was going to break speed records and would have to be careful not to get stopped on his way home. Cuddy would be there. He knew she would, as surely as he knew his own name.

Inside. Out.

Cuddy didn't need to clear her desk, she just wanted space to catch her breath and get her feet under her... but not too far under. This was going to happen. She wouldn't bail on him, not after those eyes and that "Promise?" The memory of that last time, that one night that she'd sworn would never happen again came back to her. It was faint now, grainy like an old photograph, worn by time and all that had happened since then. Even so, she tingled at the prospect of being with him again.

She had a momentary pang as she got into her car. She hadn't drunk that much of House's well-heeled scotch and she felt completely straight, but... Cuddy pushed down the guilt that was threatening to sneak in around the edges of things. I'm not going to feel guilty about this, she thought. About any of it. She put the pedal down because it was a gorgeous night and she felt like flying. Fast but not too fast. He was good that way... if memory served. And memory did, a hot cup of the way House had made love to her that had survived as a knot in her solar plexus ever since. She rolled down the windows and let the slipstream in as she flew through the night, let it blow through her and breathe color into the memories. Her eyes slid shut at a stoplight. An impatient honk startled her. Green light! She left the horn-blower in the dust.

House answered her knock immediately, as if he'd been standing by the door.

"Were you standing by the door?" she said as he moved aside to let her in.

"Me? No," House lied. He wasted no time pulling her in, kissing her, touching the places on her he'd dreamed of touching. He closed the door and pinned her against the wall, as much to support himself as to trap her, the latter so unnecessary, really... she wasn't going anywhere.

"You want it fast or slow," he whispered in her ear after coming up for air, then going back in for a neck nuzzle.

"You're giving me a choice?" she breathed. The nuzzling sent tingles across her backside.

"No, I'm making conversation," he said. He pulled away from her and staggered cane-less down the hall to his bedroom. Cuddy followed.

"Let me..." she caught him as he was about to pull his shirt over his head. House dropped his arms and she slid her hands beneath the fabric, to briefly caress his chest, then his back. She lifted the shirt and he leaned over so she could free his arms and head.

"If you wanted to cop a feel you could have asked." A smirk skated across his lips then disappeared into the hunger in his eyes as he regarded her, waiting for her next move.

"You would have said no just to be contrary," Cuddy said, holding his gaze as she dropped the shirt and started to unfasten his jeans. He stayed her hands.

"It's time for you to take something off," he told her. "And no way would I have said no."

She smiled, began to unbutton her sweater then stopped. He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a finger. "Why don't you do the honors." She slowly wet her lips. "Quid pro quo..."

His reaction was gratifying; steady hands quickly took care of the buttons. He tossed the sweater across the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed now on her bra and its oft-ogled occupants. Hungry hands went for them, caressed, cupped them. He backed up and sat down on the bed, caught her by the waist, pulled her close and buried his face in her cleavage. She wrapped her arms around him, slid her fingers into his hair, pulled him closer. The scent of him made her warm... wet: his sweat, his skin, the stuff he washed his hair with. She wanted to breathe him into herself. She wanted him inside her. That he wanted this, too, was obvious from the bulge in his jeans. House pulled his face out of her bra to ask, "Are you back on the pill?"

She shook her head. "I want a baby. If you don't, then you know what to do."

He frowned. "I remember you being a little more selective about the father..."

"And I remember you telling me the father should be someone I like."

"Which I assumed wasn't me."

She put her hands on his shoulders, let their contours fill her palms, marveling at the silky smoothness of his skin. Smooth as a baby's... She brought her hands together with his neck in between them and ran her thumbs over his beard stubble, imagining that she felt each individual whisker like a needle injecting her with himself. "You know what they say about assuming," Cuddy said.

"Yeah," he said catching her wrists. "They say you don't want House to be the father of your baby."

"They might be wrong..."

"Might be?" House picked up on the equivocation immediately. Cuddy didn't answer. She smiled and she waited. House looked away, then after a moment he released her wrists. "I'm not ready," he finally said. "I may never be."

"That may not matter," Cuddy said. "What are you going to do now?"

House slid his fingers into her waistband and clutched the fabric in his fist, pulling her off-balance. She raised one knee to steady herself and he slid the other hand beneath her hiked-up skirt, caressed her thigh. "I'm going to fuck you senseless," he growled. "While wearing a condom. Is that all right with you?"

His caress moved higher, bearing toward the inside of her thigh which was definitely all right with her.

She took his face in her hands, looked into his eyes, loved him in all his impossibleness. She wanted to say it, could say it, yet couldn't, and she realized he'd be more apt to believe her if she showed him.

He thought, one thing at a time, as he slipped his tongue into her mouth again and again she accepted it, possessed it hungrily. He wanted to get closer, wanted to touch everything, but the clothes were in the way. He tugged at her bra and she folded her arms behind her and unfastened it never breaking the kiss. That arm-pretzel thing always amazed him and he wanted to watch it in slo-mo, but not now. There are things he needed to do now... like raise up so she can take down his pants... and put the condom on.

She shrugged out of her loose lingerie and he carelessly disposed of it the same way he'd disposed of her sweater. She couldn't believe his hands could be in so many places at once, bringing so much pleasure to each place they touched. He buried his face in her now-naked breasts, kissed and fondled them, as if they were the reason and the end all. And he fastened his mouth on her nipple and sucked, pulled on it so hard she leaned into him. She felt as if he'd tapped into a well, deep inside her, perhaps where the babies began. And he was pulling her life, her soul, her very being through her nipple. She nursed him, this middle-aged baby, this wounded man who had managed through some sort of alchemy to become everything to her.

His heart was pounding, so hard, so loud, he could hear it, faintly like a radio playing low in another room. "Can you hear that?" He released her nipple long enough to ask, then returned to suckling, switching breasts, his hands full of each, his palm covering the nipple of the one not in his mouth. She moaned her assent and he realized it didn't matter that she couldn't possibly hear his heart beat. Nothing mattered but getting her close, getting her naked, getting inside her.

He lay back and pulled her on top of him. He took down the zipper on the back of her skirt and pushed her skirt, her underwear and her pantyhose down, and she wriggled, trying to help him. When that didn't work, she rolled off him and did the job herself, not caring when her pantyhose snagged, then tore as she quickly removed them. Her legs were still up as he moved on top of her, as naked as she was now. He moved between them, waited for her to join him to herself. He didn't have to wait long.

She reached between and he raised up a bit and she grasped his cock, a rigid thing her hand remembered. And she guided it to herself and placed it, soft tip against wet lips and he worked his hips and she spread her legs wider, and he pushed into her. He felt her muscles clasp him possessively. "Yes," he said, as if in response to a question. "You're mine," she wanted to say, but remained silent. Her body spoke for her anyway, she arched into him, her hands caressed and clutched, cupped his ass as he thrust into her but slowly, so slowly, deliciously slow.

He wanted to stay there, in paradise. It was warm and soft and wet and the sensation of her surrounding his cock, her beneath him, the soft press of each breast, the momentary clash of bone. He choked back a scream, he couldn't... It would scare her and only signified the depth of his pleasure, nothing scary, not nearly as scary as his scream would have been. He contented himself with a whisper, two syllables, "So good..." and she agreed and he responded as she moved beneath him, entwined her legs with his. (And he loved so much when a woman did that, and she was the only one who had ever done it without him having to ask.)

He felt as if he were overwhelming her, so different their sizes but she took it in her stride, arched again against him, took more of him inside her. He couldn't tell her that he loved her... he didn't think he could, and did it really matter? She fit him; she of all people was the one who belonged to him, and he to her.

He came, crying out to her encouragement but he didn't feel her answering release. "It's all right," she whispered... and then was silent, and they listened to each other's breathing. And he was still on top of her, inside her. And he was still hard.

"That never happens," he remarked, bemused. "I'm not complaining," she murmured and although soft, nearly a whisper, he could hear her smile, and that huskiness in her voice that bespoke years of cigarettes she'd never smoked in her life. He realized that these two things were high on the list of things he loved about her.

He moved again inside her and she caught her breath, then his rhythm. She felt the condom shift and slip and she thought of telling him to stop, to be careful, since he wasn't ready and probably would never be. But the pleasure and the momentum is too much, she didn't want to stop she wanted to wind herself around him and never be anywhere he wasn't. She stood on the brink of life, of death, of eternity and in extremity she called him by his given name and he responded in kind. And again and again and this time she came. Her cry of pleasure ended in a sob.

And she wept. For everything that was wrong with him, and her, and the world. For his pain and for her unmet need and she wondered, as he slowly pulled out of her, how she was going to get through. How would she survive if this minor parting tore her up and much larger separations were inevitable.

He got up and limped to the bathroom. She wiped her tears with both hands and listened to him pee, then take a pill, and she wondered how he was doing, what he was feeling that had nothing (but maybe everything) to do with his physical pain. She wanted to rise, to prove that she was strong but she couldn't just yet, a victim of her physiology (or, House might say, some very good sex). He came back to bed, landed heavily beside her and lay there, still and quiet for a long time before he said, "I don't want you to leave."

"Then I won't."

"... but don't stay on my account."

"I don't want to leave, either. I love it here..." She shut up. She hadn't meant to say that.

He looked at her quizzically. "You love my apartment?"

"I love being with you," she said.

"Hmmmm..." he said.

"Man of few words," she remarked. Her words fell into a deep pool of silence and she let them be. She was tired. It had been a long day and that orgasm had been out of the ballpark. She wanted to sleep so she closed her eyes, hoping that House had meant it when he said he wanted her there.

Cuddy rolled over to her side and got comfortable. She jerked back to wakefulness several times just as she was about to slide into oblivion; she was almost there again when she heard his voice.

"I can't wait to hear how you explain that hickey..."

end