Author's Note: This is my first attempt at House/Cuddy; I'm an avid fan of them and the series House MD, but I've never written for them before, so I'm a bit nervous. I will be posting one chapter each week at the minimum. And, just a warning, if you don't enjoy Cuddy!Suffering, then you probably won't like this story.

As far as House and Vicodin, this story pretty much follows Season Six. He's been to Mayfield and he's off of everything he's taking. Rachel also exists, but Lucas does not; sorry Lucas. You've had your run after Season Five. ;) I couldn't make him work in this.

Everything will become clear in this story as it progresses- it might be a little confusing for a while, but I really hope you like it. Criticism is appreciated; happy reading. :)

Also, I don't own these characters, David Shore does. If I did own them, they'd be married and living in a pleasant suburban home somewhere. So, don't suck my blood, k?

It was just another day, or so it seemed; nothing out of the ordinary- which meant, of course, that everything was. Unordinary was ordinary in her world; it was just another work-filled, stressful day. And it was only a Monday. But anything other than stressful would have made Doctor Lisa Cuddy, dean of medicine, tough-as-nails authoritarian and all-around professional-yet-womanly style nazi look down upon the day's events with contempt. Monday. An annoying, flooded and rushed Monday, but an accomplished Monday, should she say so herself. With an outward flustered expression, but an inward knowledge that she had done everything into the outreaches of her abilities, she leaned over to shut the blinds behind her office desk. The pitter patter of the rain on the hospital windows made the drive home look all the more… promising. Cuddy immediately rolled her eyes at her own thoughts. Yes, for even in her mind, she could be a sarcastic bitch.

She refused to believe that this was merely another one of House's doings, however; she refused to think he had that much of an influence on her at all. Gregory House, hm. Yeah. He had a lot of things, but not overbearing influence over her. That would allow him the satisfaction, should he find out, of the fact that he could manipulate her when he wanted to. Overrule her. Hold his cane as a metaphorical staff and lord over her. No. He couldn't; she refused to believe it. He was a genius, a damn genius at that, but he didn't maintain more power than she did, and he never would, no matter what happened. She was the boss, he was the employee, and that was how it was supposed to be- that's how the laws of social darwinism worked. And Cuddy wasn't even sure she believed in that concept. . . but of course it had to mean something, right? Yes, she would never give him power. Not even if she lost both of her legs in some freak incident.

But she knew that the chance of that never happening, along with the chance of it being House, rather, with a chainsaw in her room while she slept, were both far greater than the chance of a freak incident like that.

Point in case, House would never lord over her. Not the boss-lady, who had no problem with verbally abusing graduate students until they did her biddings, or who held the ability to manipulate insurance companies monthly to pay the hospital the money they were due; even if it was asking for one hundred more than they were willing to pay. Gregory House was always going to be just another miserable bastard compared to her.

No additional thoughts. None.

Cuddy had a habit of that. Losing herself in her own thoughts. She realized that she was doing it once again; thinking in circles, and so she set her mind to other matters. . . other more important matters.

With a simultaneous jangle as her bracelets rapped against her car keys, she stood up and turned her desk phone off, and then strode across the room in a smooth motion. She stopped and took her coat off of the rack, slid it around her shoulders, and proceeded out the door.

She was about to lock it, but never quite finished the motion.

"Evening, Lisa."

"Hey, James," she said absentmindedly to Dr. James Wilson, who had appeared beside her, looking as though he was just about to head out the door as well. In her brief distraction, her concentration was broken and she stopped to fumble with her keychain once more.

Wilson was now watching bemusedly, both eyebrows raised. "Hard day?"

Cuddy gave a somewhat strained smile, finally finding the key she was looking for. "I'm just fine," she said breathily; it was in truth. For some reason, however, she wasn't really in the mood for talking, but it wasn't Wilson, it was just her.

"You sure?" Wilson asked. Cuddy rolled her eyes to herself as she finally finished with her locking motion, and then turned around, giving him another forced, brief smile. Why did he never believe her when she told him she was fine? Yes, her life was busy and sometimes miserable, but that had no factor on whether she was fine or not. It was the norm. And she was fine with the norm.

"Yep."

But Wilson was still watching her. She tried to ignore it now as she turned away and opened her purse, putting her keys and Blackberry into a side pouch. In order to keep from looking at him again, she rummaged for her chapstick, applied some, and then smacked her lips together curtly. But it was inevitable; he was still standing there, and he would for sure continue to bother her if he thought something was up. She turned to look at him at last.

He gave her a complacent expression when their eyes met, shrugged his shoulders, and then nodded. "Ho-kay. Well, if you want to get any dinner, I'm free tonight. I'll buy."

Cuddy shook her head, pursing her lips together again. "Thanks, but no thanks, I have an eight o' clock meeting tomorrow morning, and I'm already running late. My babysitter's going to throw a fit."

"Sure thing," Wilson said, and then smiled sincerely. But Cuddy couldn't help sensing a trace of sympathy in it, and for some reason, that made her irritated. The irritation was brief and not intense, but it was there. It slid away as quickly as it had come, however.

"Well, whatever. Take it easy," he finished, and then pulled away, taking his keys out of his pocket and preparing the correct one with his thumb.

"Yeah," she said to just herself. She shook her head at this and grinned slightly; it wasn't forced or in-between stressed breaths. . . it was a real grin, a grin at what was just said to her. She knew Wilson was a friend, and he was obviously looking out for her, but sometimes things were just amusing.

Wilson always had this way of making himself the therapist of the place; making sure everyone around him was in good spirits. And he had, for some reason, sensed something off about her, when in fact, everything was fine. It was just funny and ironic- Wilson was the definition of extrovert. He spent so much time worrying about others that he barely had time to realize that his own life wasn't quite what he had expected. Yes, Wilson fit extrovert to a T.

"… And so the incessant, bitchy boss that's forcing me to do clinic tomorrow, even though I haven't had to do that in years, since apparently I'm fragile and broken now, is leaving; I can tell because it's getting dark out and you know that that means her ass is just blocking the doorway. . . and I should be free to play hooky tomorrow- Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't see you there," came a familiar voice- speaking in a tone that obviously meant he wasn't just talking to himself. And sure enough, Dr. Gregory House appeared in the lobby. He had just come out of the elevator and appeared to be leaving.

Cuddy narrowed her eyes in an amused, bored way and didn't acknowledge his presence otherwise. He, however, had stopped a few feet from her, watching her with a cocky expression on his face.

"I wasn't aware that hot-mamas-for-crippleds dot com was having a convention tomorrow," she quipped back lazily.

"Nope, that was last month. Ohhh. That's why you didn't show up. You must have missed the memo, because, man, was YOUR pimp furious," he said as he limped after her to the lobbyist's desk, watching her from behind as she signed her name quickly on a case file and then gave the receptionist a smile. It was sad how good she was at showing no interest in him. Or maybe it wasn't a talent, maybe it was just a built-up immunity.

"Hm. Now I see why my itinerary has a huge blank spot for last month. I thought I just spilled coffee on it or something," she said as she made her way across the room and to the exit. House was still following her.

"Nope."

Cuddy said nothing else, and she still didn't look at him; instead, she searched her purse for her keys once again and pulled them out.

"So," House said after a moment, looking up toward the ceiling and then back down at her. "What are you doing this weekend?"

She was slightly surprised at the question, and turned to look at him; flicking her head back once to get a free lock of hair out of her eyes. This weekend? Why was he worrying about that now, on a Monday?

"What do you want, House?"

"Your PIN number, tighter nurses' uniforms, just about everything in the vending machine over there, which, by the way, takes penny slugs, anddddd, your panties." She shot him an unamused expression. "Sorry. Broad question. Also, what are you doing this weekend?"

Cuddy opened her mouth, but she couldn't speak right away. Instead, she looked away again, down at her hands resting on the handle of the glass doors. "I don't know. . . probably taking Rachel to my mother's so I can file some expenses for the new oncology lab," she murmured.

"Wow. Fun."

"Yeah, well, I have to. I'm not in college anymore, House," Cuddy said with a complacent expression, pushing open the doors and walking out into the parking lot. The rain wasn't receding a bit; in fact, it had actually gotten worse, so she pulled her coat against her shoulders more tightly.

"Clearly not," he said, with a slightly naughty grin. "Also, you're bluffing."

"Why are you still following me?" She asked irritably. "Your car is over there, with the rest of your kind."

"Oh, being a snob now, are we? That hurts, Cuddy. Hurts. Cuts right into my soul and stings my poor, black, black heart."

"Yeah, whatever," she said, getting into her car with some difficulty due to her stilettos. She leaned forward to pull the door closed, but House stuck his cane there. Truly irritated now, she looked up at him. "What?"

"Where were you last weekend?" He asked, seriously.

How had he known she wasn't home? She had only left her place once. He couldn't possibly. . .

Cuddy stopped, furrowed her brows, and opened her mouth. She looked up at him, her eyes full of both surprise and annoyance. . . and wanting answers. "What are you talking about?" She finally asked through her shock.

"Saturday. You weren't home."

"How do you know?"

"Wilson said he saw you at the hospital."

Cuddy didn't say a word for a minute; she just looked, deadpan, into his electric blue eyes. Finally, she sighed and then leaned back into her car to avoid getting wet. House still stood there, looking at her expectantly. Something inside her forced her to keep the door open.

"You're a stalker. You're a stalker, I'm hungry, and I want to go home. Goodbye, House."

"Where were you, Cuddy?" House wasn't about to give up, and now he was as intrigued as ever.

"Is this why you asked what I was doing this weekend? To see if it's a scheduled thing? You think I've got some sort of brain tumor, or STD, and I'm going in for weekly treatments? Or that some wart on my toe is causing my brain to swell up?"

House raised his brows. "It's interesting."

She shook her head, putting her keys in the ignition. "No House. It's really not. Trust me." With that, she shut her car door, looked behind her to make sure she was able to back out safely, and then began driving out of her parking spot. House didn't move, not even when she looked in her rearview mirror as she approached the exit gate. He was still standing there, watching her car disappear from sight.

With a huge sigh, she leaned back in her seat, gripping the steering wheel gently. The motion of the windshield wipers wasn't enough to comfort her this time, because she could still see her blue eyes in her reflection. Clear, blurry, messed up. . . clear, blurry, messed up.

It was to be expected that House would question her. She just wasn't sure if she liked the fact that he had already caught on to something being up. It didn't involve him, it shouldn't involve him, and that's why she wouldn't tell him. Not yet.

She wouldn't have told him ever, if she could have helped it. But she couldn't help it. He would find out, as would all the others.

But not yet.