A/N: I'm not sure yet where this is going, but it keeps sort of trickling out. Hope it's not too ramble-y.

I'm not sure yet about the timing. Sometime in season 5, I guess, possibly before Rachel but I haven't decided yet. I'll go where it takes me.

----

This story both starts and ends with a dream.

Have you ever just known something, intuitively, with every fiber of your being? One night not long ago, I had a dream so real that when I woke I knew it would come true. It's sort of like that "Law of Attraction" stuff. I didn't know how I would get from here to there; I just knew what there looked like and I knew I'd arrive. This wasn't a matter of faith or belief. This was knowing.

I'm a bit on the fence when it comes to the existence of God, but I do know this much: that dream was a gift. From God, from the universe, from my subconscious – I don't know. It's not really relevant. My point is, this knowing gave me hope, and hope gave me courage, and courage allowed me to take steps in a direction I never believed I'd travel again. I guess you could say I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.

---

I swear to God, it's not just about the lust.

Okay, it's a little about the lust.

Fine. It's 50/50.

I was thinking about this earlier today while signing off on charts at the front desk. It's one of the more mindless parts of my job; I can get away with a little daydreaming. So-and-so needs antibiotics. Fine by me... L. Cuddy. Some poor soul got tetanus from a rusty nail... L. Cuddy. Check the doctor first, scan the details, sign. I really only scrutinize the chart when House's name is listed. He's like that one mainstreamed special-ed kid in the third grade classroom – he's completely capable of doing the work; he just needs extra supervision and frequent medication.

Anyway, while signing the charts I felt him come up behind me. I don't mean physically – he generally keeps his sexual harassment verbal. I know how this is going to sound, but I have this weird sort of sixth sense when it comes to House. Probably because we've known each other for so long. House would say I just pick up cues from the environment, like the subtle amusement of the nurse behind the desk or the bristling of a nearby security guard.

He was standing behind me, so close I could feel his warmth and smell... whatever that scent is. (One time I sniffed every bottle of aftershave, men's body wash and shampoo in the local Rite-Aid but I still never found out what it is.) He wasn't saying anything. It's a fun game, the one where he waits until I turn around and smash into him. He gets to feel me up without doing any of the work, I get to press up against him and pretend to be annoyed. Good times.

L. Cuddy. Sign off on a transplant. I'm not turning around this time, House. Some part of me laughed and said, "Oh yeah?" And once again I was smashed up against him.

"Bagel?" he offered, shaking a white bakery bag beside my ear.

"You're late," I informed him sternly. I sidestepped him and headed for my office. He followed, as I knew he would, not bothering to explain his lateness.

"I need to ask for a day off," he said and made himself at home on my office sofa.

"Well, it's Thursday, and you've come in two hours late every day this week. That's eight hours you've shorted me this week. How about we count that as your 'day off?'"

"Nope. I need tomorrow off."

House was licking cream cheese from his finger, and, daaaamn. For a moment I couldn't answer, so I just pretended to think about it. "Why?"

"I got stuff to do," he said around a huge bite of bagel.

Now this is where I have to make a little confession. I'm a good boss, a nice boss. I don't pry. If an employee needs a day off, it's usually no-questions-asked. I trust my people, even House to some extent, and beyond mere curiosity I didn't much care why he wanted a day off. What I cared about was the fight. Fighting with House makes me feel alive.

Jesus, that sounds pathetic. Whatever. He likes it too, our little back-and-forth verbal foreplay. I know he does.

"What stuff?" I asked casually, and started rooting through some folders on my desk. Somewhere in the pile there had to be something that would interest him.

"I'm helping a friend move."

I gave him my best look of pure incredulity. "Help... friend... If you're going to make something up you might want to avoid including two obvious lies."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll work. I'll have my friend send you the movers' bill."

I didn't answer, a little disappointed. I wanted my argument. It's sick, but I love it when he gets all worked up and pissed. Any emotion is better than none. On the other hand, I realized he didn't really want a day off; he was really just here to get attention from Mommy. I'm okay with that. Again: sick.

Shifting gears, I watched him work on the bagel. He took an obnoxiously large bite, then swept his eyes back to mine. I smiled. "What?" he demanded.

I shook my head, suddenly remembering a recent dream. "Nothing." Keep him guessing – that's my MO.

The blue eyes narrowed and I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from laughing. Instead I looked down at the files. "I have a case for you."

He grunted in acknowledgement.

"Thirty-six year old male, presenting with rash on the extremities, fever, and abdominal pain."

We went back and forth for a few minutes as we always do, until I jerked the hook and reeled him in. He gets that look when he's interested. His entire demeanor changes, and it's as if the case is a magnet to which every molecule in his body becomes aligned. I felt that delicious charge in the air, that force that pulled him off the couch and toward the red file in my hand.

A moment later he was gone.

----

What was I saying about lust? Oh, right. It's 50/50, half lust, half... other stuff. Honest to God. It took me a while to figure that out. It's all about the eyes, but maybe not in the way you think.

See, House has these vivid blue eyes. I'll spare you the comparisons to the prairie sky. Suffice it to say it's the eyes that do me in. But there's this line that I can sometimes cross when I focus. I have to be fast because House doesn't maintain eye contact with me for long periods. It's a two-part process. Stage One is the part where I want to jump his bones. Stage Two is where I feel like I'm looking directly into his soul. If I can force myself to look past the instant lust, I can get glimpses of the person he never lets out, the vulnerable boy who just needs to be loved.

God, I sound ridiculous. "Boy who needs to be loved?" Some things are cliché for a reason, though. There really is a love-starved boy in there, right between the bored genius and the frustrated playboy.

So later that same day House reappeared in my office and as usual, I put everything else on hold to deal with him.

"Case solved," he said.

I frowned. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be avoiding me, hiding out so I don't send you packing to the clinic?"

"It's not my day."

"You owe me five hundred hours. I can send you any time."

"You won't send me today." He seemed oddly tense as he settled into a nearby chair, hooking his cane over the edge of my desk.

"Why not?"

He was acting weird, even for him. Something was off. "Because, I'm about to do something... nice."

"Really."

"Really." He wasn't meeting my eyes at all.

I dropped my pen, crossed my arms, and leaned back in the chair. "Okaaay."

House propped his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor in uncharacteristic silence.

"Wow," I said with a grin, "you being quiet. This is nice!"

"Shut up, this is hard enough as it is."

A bit taken aback, I fell into a silence of my own. House continued to stare at the floor morosely.

This was a delicate matter indeed. "House," I said softly, "what's wrong?"

He swallowed. "Nothing."

"You look upset. What happened?"

"Nothing. I just – I have something for you."

"Oh. Okay."

Long fingers, of which I was unaccountably jealous, reached into his jeans' pocket and pulled something out. It was too small for me to see at this distance. He set it on my desktop and slid it toward me.

"What's this?" I frowned, trying to scope out his game. "A penny?"

His eyes revealed a split-second flash of vulnerability before the wall moved back into place. "Not just any penny. This," he punctuated the word with a stab of his finger, "is a lucky penny."

"Oh," I said neutrally, sliding the coin a bit closer. It was still warm from his pocket. "You... think I'm unlucky?"

"Not necessarily. That's a logical fallacy. Maybe I just think you need more luck." He shifted, looking uncomfortable, as if realizing he'd just made a big mistake.

Whatever this was, it was making him nervous. You have to tread lightly around Nervous House; when he takes one step forward his fears push him two steps back. Humor releases the pressure. "Or maybe you're trying to say that I need to get lucky."

My joke was the out he evidently needed. Favoring me with a rare half-smile, he stood up. "You said it, not me."

"Well, thank you, House." I tipped the coin into my palm. "I shall treasure it forever." It came out sounding sarcastic – a lie of tone.

----

"Is there something going on with House?" I asked Wilson.

His eyebrows raised skeptically and he dropped a file into his desk drawer. "You're going to have to be more specific."

"He's acting weird."

"Again – I'm going to need more than that."

I looked at him silently for a moment, trying to figure out if he was in on the big joke. I could see that he wasn't. "He gave me something," I said at last.

"Really? What?"

"It's weird."

"I gathered. So what was it? Flowers? Chocolates? An STD?"

I chuckled and pulled the penny out of my jacket pocket. "A penny."

Wilson examined the coin. "A penny. What, for luck?"

"I don't know. He didn't actually say."

I should stop here to inform you that Wilson is much easier to read than House. Utterly guileless, he's pretty much the opposite of House. I can read Wilson like a book, so when the page unexpectedly turned I saw the recognition on his face long before he tried to hide it.

"What?" I asked, leaning forward. "What do you know?"

He looked away, considering. When his eyes returned to mine they were mirthful. "This is good," he said with a smile. "This is huge."

"What?"

Wilson only chuckled and flipped the penny over between his fingers. "This is... wow."

"What?"

"Well," he hesitated, "it's really not my place to tell you." He slid the penny back in my direction. "I'm sure you're dying to know, but I think it would be better for House to do this at his own pace."

"Do what?" But I already knew, didn't I?

"Just leave it alone for a while, Lisa. Trust me?" Wilson smiled reassuringly. "And keep that penny."