"Do you ever need to shave, Wilson?" House asks.

I'm about to answer when I wake up to annoying sounds coming out of the bathroom. I put two and two together in my sleep-deprived state and come up with one. "House! Shut the hell up. Get out of my bathroom. I'm trying to sleep."

The discordant shrieks of a guitar stop. Bare feet pad into my room. I cock one eye open. Sam stands in front of me, pink, blond, and naked. She's worth propping my head on my arm so both eyes can inspect every curve of her. I remember to put on my respectful face while I ogle.

"I thought you liked Green Day. Did you call me, House?" she asks. Her fingers comb through damp strands of curly hair.

"That music… the bathroom." I scrub my hand over my face. Like so many things about House, I know I'm never going to make her understand the living arrangement we had. I cue a befuddled expression. "A nightmare. I had a nightmare."

The bed barely dips as she sits down beside me. Her clean soapy smell is pleasant, but it means she's has plans for the day. She's not going to let me sweat it off her until later. I mentally reshuffle my schedule and reach for the phone. "You're going out?" I press House's number. See how he's doing after last night and if he wants company.

Sam brushes the phone from my hand. "I have time for breakfast at Mickey's." She plants a playful kiss on my cheek. House can wait until later.

Other than a small amber lake of syrup, there's nothing left of the French toast tower. I destroyed it all on my own. Can't remember the last time House didn't help by snagging a slice. Sam nibbles her white egg omelet. She looks up and smiles. There's a little lipstick on her right tooth. It's endearing. If the smudge is still there after she finishes breakfast, I'll point it out.

My fork circles the small plate of bacon but stops when I hear the roar of a motorcycle. I peer out the window. House. He's stalking again.

I'm wrong. I don't see him. All the traffic is held at bay by the red light.

The light turns green and the unmistakable rising pitch of a motorcycle drills into my ear. I scan the passing cars. Yes. There's a flash of red. I'm right, it is House, but he's not gawking into Mickey's. Not looking for a parking place, not stopping.

Someone is riding with him. Arms clutching his waist. Black hair flying from under a helmet. Cuddy?

It's Cuddy. Good for him. How many times did I tell him to…

"James?"

I feel a tug, and Sam is holding my fork.

"What did you do?" Her smile is no longer carefree.

The fork is bent in half like a 'V.'

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Comments always welcome. :)

Story title taken from the lyrics, Big Yellow Taxi, by Joni Mitchell.