Ugh. I kind of screwed up the rhythm of this fic. I should have posted the first giant chunk as two separate chapters, thus creating three equal-sized parts. Instead, I dropped the gigundo chapter 1, creating the expectation that chapter 2 would have similar, uh, girth. Instead, I give you this. Check those high expectations, fic fans, and you should at least be somewhat amused.

House collected the empty bottles that were strewn across his bed.

He felt strangely nourished by the sandwich and soup, although neither had been particularly good. (Cuddy had burnt the toast and the soup wasn't hot enough . . .but, still, she had cooked. For him.)

And he had to admit, he was curious about the present she had alluded to. He put on his bathrobe and padded into the dining room.

He chuckled when he saw what it was: An iron, unwrapped, with a note: "Baby steps.-C"

He shook his head and headed for the shower.

####

A few hours later, Cuddy wandered into the DDx room to see if House had actually shown up. He wasn't there.

"Looks like you had no more luck with him than the rest of us," said Cameron, feeling vindicated.

"Luck with who?" House said.

He was standing in the doorway to the office, more or less shaved and groomed, looking sober and refreshed.

"Welcome back, House," Foreman said.

House gave Cuddy the tiniest nod and sat down at the table with his team.

"Give me an update on the case," he said. "And by update, I mean, tell me all your ridiculous theories. I could use the laugh."

Then he turned to Cameron, who was still staring at him.

"What?" he said, sharply.

"You look. . .different," she said.

He furrowed his brow.

"Different how? Four days older perhaps?"

She squinted at him.

"No, I can't quite put my finger on it. . .It's. . ."

She kept staring at him quizzically.

"Your shirt is ironed!" she said, suddenly figuring it out.

House looked down at the table.

"It's, uh, a new shirt," he lied, as Cuddy, suppressing a smile, headed back to her office.

#####

Cuddy's phone rang three nights later, at about 10 o clock.

She looked at the caller ID.

"What do you want House?"

"Depends," House said. He sounded ever so slightly drunk. "Am I speaking to friend Cuddy or boss Cuddy?"

"What have you done now?"

"Nothing," he said. "I just thought that maybe friend Cuddy would like to join me at Sullivan's for a drink. Boss Cuddy isn't invited."

Cuddy smiled.

"Friend Cuddy would. But she's wearing her pajamas. It's after 10, House."

"Boss Cuddy would go to sleep at 10. Friend Cuddy would realize that she's 37, not 67 and throw on some duds and join me for a drink."

Cuddy hesitated. A part of her really wanted to join him for a drink. Another part thought it was a singularly terrible idea.

"The suspense is killing me, Cuddy!" House said.

She looked over at the cup of tea with lemon on her nightstand that she had been drinking. It was resting on a quilted doily.

"I'll be there in 20 minutes," she said.

#####

He had saved a seat for her at the bar.

He smiled when he saw her: Her hair was slightly messy, and the only makeup she wore was a bit of hastily applied dark red lipstick.

She had never looked better to him.

"The bartender keeps no more than $100 in the drawer at any time," he said, when she sat down. "Just thought you'd want to know that."

"Very funny, House," she said.

"So what's your next heist? Jewelry store? Bank? Or are you thinking more of a white-color crime? Embezzlement?"

"I'm never going to live this down, am I?" she said.

"Not a chance," he said, with a grin. "By the way, whatever happened with your court case?"

"They let me go on a technicality," she said. "The arresting cop never showed."

"Do you realize how much restraint I am exercising in not making a 'you got off' joke?"

"Your maturity is truly impressive," she said.

"Thank you," he said, with a little bow.

The bartender, came over, raised his eyebrows at House, and then turned to Cuddy.

"Hi," he said leadingly.

"Hi," she said back.

"I'm Harry."

"I'm Lisa."

"Nice to meet you, Lisa. So what'll it be?"

Cuddy started to order, but House interrupted her:

"Belvedere martini, not too dry, two olives," he said.

Cuddy side-eyed him. Did he obsessively take note of everyone's favorite drink, or just hers?

"Good guess," she teased.

He had been showing off, but now he realized that he had perhaps revealed too much of his own personal obsession.

"Knowledge is power," he said idly.

She got her drink and they clinked glasses.

"To friendship," House said, cautiously.

"To friendship," Cuddy agreed.

There was a tiny pause as they both contemplated this unfamiliar new status between them.

"I'm still not totally sure why you called me instead of Wilson that night," he said finally.

"Instinct," she said.

"So you call Wilson when you want a sperm donation and me when you want to get bailed out of jail?" he said.

"Something like that," she chuckled.

"Should I be hurt?"

"You should be flattered," she said. "Wilson is way too normal to be of any use in a moment like that."

House managed to suppress a smile.

"So exactly how many times have you been arrested?" Cuddy asked him.

He shrugged.

"What does that mean?"

"It means. . .I've lost count."

"You've lost count of how many times you've been arrested?"

"Insubordination to a police officer," House said. "It's a thing."

She shook her head.

"You're too much," she said. "When will you learn to keep your giant mouth shut?"

"And when will you learn not to steal bracelets from department stores?"

"I didn't!"

"Gotcha," he said, with a little grin.

Then he looked thoughtfully at his glass. His voice suddenly grew serious.

"Funny story: The first time I ever got arrested, it was because my old man turned me in to the cops."

Talking to House was a bit like driving on a windy country road late at night. You had to watch out for sudden curves.

"Your. . .father?"

"He claimed I stole his truck," House said, taking a big swig of his drink. "It was a '66 Chevy. Sky blue. I loved that old thing. Used to tinker with it all the time in the garage. Mom let me drive it when Dad was overseas. It was kind of our little secret, you know?"

He smiled a bit at the memory.

"Then, one night, I took it to a party . . . we had just won the lacrosse regionals. I had scored the winning goal. It was a perfect night. . . Sylvie DeAngelo was going to have sex with me. . ." He glanced at Cuddy, to see if that was an overshare. She seemed unfazed. "And Pop got home a day early from Okinawa—and when he saw that the truck wasn't parked in the garage, he blew a gasket, so to speak. Called the cops on me. Not as a bluff. Not to teach me a lesson. But to actually have me spend the night in jail."

"Oh House, I'm so sorry," she said.

She wasn't sure why he had chosen to share this story with her now. It seemed that suddenly they were stepping into all kinds of uncharted territory.

She touched his arm, but he stiffened a bit.

"It was no big deal," he said, looking away.

Aaaaand. . .another curve in the road.

She decided to lighten the mood.

"I see the whole ironing thing didn't take," she said, inspecting his wrinkled pink shirt.

"Never really understood the point of ironing," he admitted. "The clothing is just going to get rumpled again anyway."

"Ahh, the old: 'Why make the bed when you're just going to sleep in it' excuse," Cuddy said.

"Yeah. . .mom never bought that line either," he said, grinning.

He noticed that Cuddy had an empty glass.

"Another one?" he said.

She sighed.

"Okay, ONE more. It's a school night. But first I gotta pee."

"Bathroom's that way," he said, jerking his thumb to the right.

"I have been here before, you know," she said, slightly defensive.

"Sorry. My bad."

She got up, peered at the unfamiliar hallways, hesitated.

"That one?" she confirmed, wrinkling her nose.

"Yeah," he said, smiling at her.

And he watched her walk away, a stupid grin playing at his lips.

Harry walked over to him.

"You dog," he said.

"What?" House said innocently.

"You've been coming to this bar for—what?— five years and I've never seen you so much as talk to a woman."

"I'm picky," House said.

Harry shook his head.

"Well, your patience paid off, my friend. She's smoking hot. How long have you two been dating?"

"She's not my girlfriend," House said. "We're just. . . friends."

Harry looked genuinely stunned by this development.

"Please tell me you're planning on hitting that," he said.

House rubbed his chin.

"Inconclusive," he said.

#####

"Ask me what I have in my back pocket," Wilson said, sliding into the seat across from House.

"Your ass?"

Wilson frowned.

"No. Two tickets for tonight's Monster Truck Rally at the civic center. Boom."

House grabbed the tickets, to confirm that they were real, as Wilson smiled at him, proudly.

"Whoa," House said, impressed. Then he remembered something. "Shit. I can't go."

"You can't go?"

"No. . .I already have plans."

"You're joking. This is The Destroyer vs. Colossus we're talking about here."

House sighed. "No can do," he said.

"Wait," Wilson said suspiciously. "What kind of plans?"

"I'm, uh, going to a concert."

"A jazz concert?"

"No," House said. "It's a . . ." And then he mumbled something unintelligible.

"A what?" Wilson said.

"A baroque music concert," he said, mortified.

"Holy shit," Wilson said. "You've got a date."

"Not exactly."

Just at that moment, Cuddy came strutting through the cafeteria, having grabbed a salad to bring back to her desk.

"See you at 7?" she said to House as she passed by.

"Can't wait," he said, with a slightly frozen smile. He watched her walk away. When he looked back at the table, Wilson was staring at him, his mouth hanging open.

"You're going on a date WITH CUDDY?"

"Not a date-date," House said, lowering his voice. "We're just going as. . .friends."

Wilson started to laugh, somewhat derisively.

"First of all, there's no way you are voluntarily going to a baroque music concert. And second of all, how many times have you told me that a man and woman cannot be friends?"

"Cuddy and I are the exception that proves the rule," House said, unconvincingly.

Wilson folded his arms.

"Uh huh," he said.

The two men contemplated each other.

Finally, House put his head in his hands.

"It's driving me crazy, Wilson. We've been to the Farmer's Market. The museum. And the movies—twice. But all I want to do is see her naked."

Wilson laughed.

"So do something about it," he said.

"Like what?"

"I know you're a bit out of practice, but when a man likes a woman he generally. . ."

"I don't need an anatomy lesson, Wilson. I just. . .what if she doesn't feel the same way?"

"Come on House. Everyone in this hospital knows she has the hots for you. You used to know she has the hots for you."

"Things are different now. We're trying the friend route."

"Why on earth would you want to be friends with Cuddy?" Wilson said, cocking his head a bit. "What's your angle?"

House scratched his chin.

"No angle . .I'm just. . .We're just. . ."

"You actually like her!" Wilson interjected.

"Keep your voice down," House said.

"You want to see her naked. And you like her company. You know what that says to me? You want Cuddy to be your girlfriend."

"Shut up, Wilson."

######

After the concert, he and Cuddy went back to his place for a drink.

They were sitting side by side on the couch.

House had opened a bottle of red.

Cuddy had kicked off her heels and her legs were folded underneath her.

"Admit it, it wasn't as bad as you thought," she said. "I actually saw you close your eyes in reverie at one point."

"That was me drifting asleep," he said.

"Liar!"

"Okay, maybe that Bach guy doesn't suck so bad."

"Big of you to admit that one of the towering geniuses of all time doesn't suck," she said.

"But next time, I pick the music."

"Deal," she said, raising her glass. And, as they clinked glasses, House accidentally (on purpose) spilled his wine all over her.

"Shit!" she said, jumping up.

"Sorry," he said, sheepishly.

It was a direct hit. The wine had managed to get all over her (white) blouse and on her pants. Some had even gotten in her hair.

"Oh no! Your couch," she said.

The fact that she was more worried about his couch than her own blouse was one of the many reasons he adored her.

"A lot worse has spilled on it," he said.

"Gross," she said.

"Uh, not that," he said, quickly.

She looked down at her outfit in dismay.

"Can I borrow my backup outfit?" she said. Then she grabbed a strand of her sticky hair and smelled it.

"And maybe take another quick shower?"

"The lengths you will go to use my shower, Cuddy," he said.

"You spilled wine on me!" she protested.

"Your hand drunkenly shook," he said.

"Did not!"

"Revisionist history," he said. "But go right ahead, you wino."

She laughed.

"I'm making a habit of this. Maybe I should just keep a change of clothing at your place," she said.

"I'd like that," he said.

"Me too," she said.

And they looked at each other.

There was a pause and then Cuddy gave a girlish little laugh.

"Back in a jiff," she said.

She went to the bathroom, closed the door. He could hear the water begin to run.

He watched the door for a while. He imagined her rubbing her naked body with soap. He imagined himself rubbing her naked body with soap.

Finally he said out loud, "Fuck it."

And he stepped toward the bathroom.

Cuddy had her eyes closed and her head under the water, and when the shower curtain opened, she gasped a bit.

House was standing there, completely undressed. She hadn't even heard him come in.

She hadn't seem him naked since med school. He still had an athlete's body, despite the infarction. Ropy arm muscles, a broad back, a lean torso. The scar on his leg was ugly, horrific actually, but who could even look at his leg? He had always had the most marvelous cock.

She gulped.

"What are you doing House?" she said.

His eyes had been hungrily exploring her body, just as hers had been exploring his. He was fully hard now—offering himself to her.

"I've come to wash your back," he said softly.

Before she could protest, he firmly took her shoulders, maneuvered her around and grabbed his bottle of soap. He squirted some soap into his palm and began to slowly massage her back with it. She could feel his erection against her leg. She felt weak in the knees.

His hands moved from her back to her shoulders and then slowly found her breasts. She shuddered a bit when he touched them. She could hear him breathing over the rush of the water. He swirled the soap in a circular motion, until her breasts were sudsy. But then he forgot that he was supposed to be washing her and his thumbs began playing with her nipples and then his hands migrated down her torso, to her hips and between her legs. She turned, not able to wait anymore, pressed herself against him, found his mouth—his lips, his tongue—and he was stroking her ass and they were wedged against the shower wall and they were both sighing and moaning in unison, and then his mouth moved fervently to her neck, and he was licking the soap off her breasts, and he grabbed her thigh to steady her and she realized he was about to enter her.

"Your leg?" she said, so turned on that she barely cared.

"Shhhh," he said.

And he was inside her.

#####

Afterwards, he held her close, his face buried in her neck as the water continued to rain down on them.

"You're my bestest friend ever," he joked, idly kissing the hollow of her neck.

"Mine too," she said, her hands resting on his hips.

"I have a confession to make," he said. "I spilled that wine on you on purpose."

"I know you did."

"Sorry," he said.

"I'm not," she said. She gave him a light kiss on the mouth. (They were in that post-coital phase where they still couldn't quite get over the wonder of each other's bodies.)

"I have a confession, too," she said.

"Oh yeah?"

"I kind of wanted you to join in me in the shower the last time I took one here."

"You're kidding!" House said. "You mean I missed a Monster Truck Rally for nothing?"

THE END