Title: Subterfuge

Author: Morgan72uk

Summary: In a hospital made of glass retreating behind closed blinds is tantamount to an admission of guilt.

Rating: I'm awful at these things but I'm going withT to be on the safe side.

Pairing: House /Cuddy

Disclaimer: Still hoping not to be sued.

Author's note: So, I watched Humpty Dumpty and despite a few 'oh my God' moments, I think I prefer Cuddy in kick ass mode - although sombe Cuddy did look beautiful. But, that damn song got into my head and wouldn't let me alone. So, if you squint and tilt your head a bit - you might just be able to fit this into the post ep aftermath. Not that I think it's what is really going on- or even that it's particularly in character. It's really just so I could get Delicate out of my head.

Subterfuge

Suddenly everyone is watching you and you have to fight the urge to hide, because in a hospital made of glass retreating behind closed blinds is tantamount to an admission of guilt. But you feel their eyes on you and you wonder what it is that's preventing them from coming out and asking you straight.

If House cares about this scrutiny, if he even notices, he gives no sign. You aren't surprised by this because you know what his not so throwaway remark, about whether the two of you ever had sex, was really intended to do. If he was hoping to provoke Stacy then he seems to have been successful – but she is working hard to be curious rather than jealous – and she is watching you along with everyone else. She is perhaps the only person who, if she asks, will get an answer from you. But you both know she isn't going to ask.

The only person not watching you (and you include House in this because he's watching you as well – just with a different motive) is Wilson. He is the one person who doesn't have a question in his eyes, and you are certain that's because he already knows the answer. While you're grateful for the respite you don't know how you feel about him being privy to one of your deepest, darkest secrets.

You don't hide, but you do as much as possible to stay out of the way for a few days. You suspect you are the only person who appreciates this subtle distinction – but what is the point of having an assistant and a schedule packed with meetings if you don't use them to keep people at arms length once in a while?

The problem is, none of these prove to be effective defences against the one person you really should be hiding from – a point he proves when he cuts through them in a swathe late in the afternoon of the second day of your enforced isolation. Despite your growl of protest at his intrusion he drops onto your couch and casts a belligerent glance in your direction before making his accusation.

'You're hiding.'

'By sitting in my office, which has glass walls, how will anyone find me I wonder?'

His expression says he doesn't believe you and you wait to see if he is planning to call you on it. You want to tell him that you have made a strategic retreat because you have no intention of being in the middle of whatever is happening between him and Stacy, or him and Cameron for that matter. Your sense of self-preservation is well developed, but even if it weren't you'd recognise the signs of a train wreck waiting to happen. And you know that you don't want to be anywhere near the aftermath.

His gaze shifts, flicking to the glass walls of your office, to your assistant, who is oh so carefully not watching the two of you, and then back to you again.

'Does he ever go off sentry duty?' House asks, 'or is he here to prevent you from doing something you'll regret?'

'I think it's a little late for that,' you reply, carefully oblique.

His eyes tug at you, his expression at once baleful, challenging and somewhere in there is a flicker of need – which is what calls to you. Carefully you cross the distance between you – figurative as well as literal – to sit beside him. You cross your legs, straighten your skirt and when you look at him his expression hasn't wavered. Up close you fight the inclination to shiver, fight the need to pull away. Bad enough to show weakness over a patient – showing signs of frailty in this moment would surely be fatal.

'You're still angry?' He says gruffly.

'You broke into my house, invaded my privacy.'

'Using a spare key – how did I know where to find that I wonder?'

'That's not the point.'

'Then what is the point? That I was there, that Chase and Foreman were there, that we didn't ask you first? Or that you didn't work out that was what we were going to do?' His question stings, but he rides straight over your instinctive protest, 'I don't think you'd have been any happier if I'd sent the team on their own, I had to work very hard to distract them, prevent them from finding some fairly, incriminating items.'

'I don't know what…'

'At least one of my shirts is in your closet, my spare shaving kit is under the sink in the bathroom – do you think it would be a good idea if they'd found those?' For a moment you imagine just how – difficult that would have been, but then common sense kicks and you see the flaw in his argument.

'I think if they had found them they wouldn't necessarily assume they belonged to you.'

'I've worn that shirt to work, it's why I sent Cameron with you – she's a lot more observant than Foreman or Chase,' at your raised eyebrow he continues, 'you think they've learnt nothing from me? I'm not sure – but you just might be able to get a DNA sample from a razor.'

'House you are the only person who would even consider taking a DNA sample to satisfy your curiosity.' His look of innocence is not convincing and, for a reason you don't entirely understand, you find yourself fighting back a smile. 'So, it was all for my own good, you were protecting my reputation – and it has nothing to do with playing games with your team, and with Stacy?'

'An added bonus,' is his response – which as it happens, you believe. 'I didn't cause the speculation Cuddy, I didn't plant the idea in anyone's head, they reached their conclusions all on their own.'

'You did nothing to disabuse them of the idea though.'

'That would be wrong! It wouldn't be true.'

'And suddenly your warped sense of morality finds the concept of lying offensive?'

You don't talk about this thing you have – you've never talked about it. Neither of you seem willing to characterise it as a 'relationship'; just as you aren't prepared to admit that there is anything more than sex between you. The silence seems to suit you both, broken only by the whispers and groans of your lovemaking.

Sometimes he can make you forget about everything other than him – and sometimes his touch is the most salient of reminders of the brittle, dysfunctional world you both inhabit. You say, 'never again,' after every night, you are sure he does as well – but it's the only promise you've ever made to yourself that you regularly break.

You jump as his hand slides under your skirt, his touch shockingly warm against your skin as his fingers caress your knee. Your eyes close for a moment and when you open them again it is to find him amused by the effect he can have on you when he puts his mind to it.

'You said I'd never be happy,' you whisper, some of the hurt leaking into your voice as you repeat the words you promised yourself you wouldn't remember.

'I meant in general – I wasn't suggesting you were incapable of experiencing pleasure or giving pleasure for that matter. I think we both know differently.' His hand edges a little further under your skirt, 'happiness is overrated Cuddy – it's the refuge of fools and cowards.'

'You would say that, though, wouldn't you? You'd love it if everyone was as miserable as you.' Your response would be cruel, but you deliver it without malice or relish. It's more about reminding him that you can match him - if you need to. His lips curve into an almost smirk as he tips his head in acknowledgement.

'I see you're feeling better. But I'm still worried about your stress levels – as a responsible colleague I feel I ought to prescribe you something relaxing – I'm thinking a night of hot and sweaty sex.'

'I see and who do you suggest I share this experience with?'

'As it happens, I'm free.' His hand strokes carefully over your skin – and he knows very well that this is far more persuasive than anything he could actually say.

In your reflective moments you find yourself wondering how this will end. You imagine that some day one of you will meet someone else and start a proper relationship. In this version of events the end will come quietly, without rancour and nothing will change except that you no longer share a bed. He will still try to push your buttons; succeeding more often than he realises and you'll still try to protect him. You'll be the same people – marked by your intimacy even when it has ended. You won't like him any more than you like him now – and even when you're post coital there are times when you don't like him much.

You tell yourself that you aren't Cameron or Stacy, aren't tormented by the feelings you have for him. You think the reason he wants you is because you don't over-complicate things, don't expect him to be someone he isn't – or ask him for things he can't give. You don't ask anything of him at all – and yet somehow he is still under your skin.

'You think, after the last few days, I'm just going to take you up on your, prescription?'

'I think we both know you don't have to like me to sleep with me.' Not for the first time he has come close to reading your mind – another of his many irritating habits. He glances down, and at the sight of his hand on your skin something like amusement flickers across his face. 'Although, I think you like me more than you pretend to.'

'You're delusional - I don't like you at all.'

'I get that a lot.'

The silence is tantalising – you know you should move away from him, should tell him no. But you aren't going to, because sometimes you do get what you want – and there has never been any doubt that you want him as much as he wants you. 'I have a late meeting,' you say quietly – ducking away from his gaze before seeing his inevitable smirk, 'probably won't leave here until after nine.'

'All work and no play makes Cuddy a very dull girl,' he intones sombrely.

'I prefer no rest for the wicked,' you offer, enjoying the surge of power the heat in his eyes gives you.

'Well, when you've finished being wicked – come find me in my office.'

'And we can be wicked all over again?'

'I love it when you talk dirty.'

With a final pat he slides his hand out from under your skirt and hoists himself to his feet. You watch his progress and try to tell yourself that what you are feeling is not tenderness. That isn't what either of you need. At the door he turns back towards you, for a moment you think he is going to say something more, but then he shakes his head and limps out.

It is business as usual as you hear his familiarly ironic tones tell your assistant that you are 'ready for afternoon delight now.' You smile, just a little at the image his words conjure and then push aside thoughts of later, of the two of you wrapped together, sweaty and sated – and still not saying anything.

The silence defines whatever it is the two of you have and as your afternoon passes you find yourself wondering if that is because you have nothing to say to one another, or because you are both scared of what you might say, if you ever found your voices.

When you emerge from your office you still feel as though you are being watched, you pass Stacy in the hallway and see the questions she won't allow herself to ask in her eyes. Chase and Foreman cast glances your way as you yell at House for having them cover his extra clinic hours – and Cameron is reluctant to look at you at all. But you are more confident now because whatever they might suspect, they don't know for sure.

You are good at keeping this secret, good at the manoeuvring necessary to keep people guessing. And, though you don't want to admit it, you are good at fooling yourself.

By the time your final meeting of the day reaches its conclusion the hospital is quieter. Your heels tap out a staccato rhythm as, with end of the day languor, you wind your way to House's door. He isn't alone, of course and you watch him pop a vicodin or two as Wilson makes mumbled apologies and slips back to his own office.

'So,' he drawls, 'did we decide on a location?' Normally you insist on your place – since you like the semblance of control it gives you, even if it does mean some of his possessions have taken up residence beside yours – something you are sure neither of you are willing to attribute motive to. But there are nights, and this is one of them, when what you need is not to be in control.

'I thought you might take me home with you,' you offer, shrugging as his too penetrating gaze hits you – because of course it's about wanting to intrude on his privacy as much as he intruded into yours. But that's not all its about.

You walk together out of the hospital. Something that will no doubt cause further comment and speculation in the morning. You wonder just what it says about you that the most significant 'relationship' in your life is one that you aren't prepared to publicly acknowledge, involves someone who you admire, but don't always like, is based on sex, with affection as a late night, darkness couched after-thought.

It is a question that you return to later, as he sleeps with an arm wrapped over your stomach and his face buried in your shoulder. Sleep makes him, makes you both, more honest and what you reveal to each other in the dark isn't the same as the things you hide behind in daylight.

You know that you'll keep doing this – despite the many complications it brings – because you prize honesty over happiness and there is a raw, almost frustrated honesty in the way he touches you, as though he knows that truths leak from him when he is buried in you. That's what all the lies and the dissembling are really about. You're still protecting him, protecting him from admitting what his body reveals in unguarded moments.

He must, on some level, understand this is what you are doing and recognise there is a chance that you will be consumed by it, by him. You know he isn't going to stop either, that he won't allow himself to make the slightest attempt to rescue you. Which makes it an impasse – albeit one with some great fringe benefits.

But you've been taking care of yourself for a long time now, your achievements are marks of character and, whatever House might say about how you see the world, you know that you are a realist. This is what you have room for in your life. It's a long way from perfect, or well balanced and at times you think it might be a mark of insanity – but House would probably say that sanity is over-rated.

Tomorrow you'll be under scrutiny again and House will be as unpleasant as possible to counter-balance tonight. But you'll be ready for him, ready for all of them. You'll hold your head high, wear heels, your favourite suit and slap him down every chance you get. And the people watching you will shake their heads and wonder, all over again, if two people who are that nasty to each other could possibly have slept together once upon a time.

And, if that's what they think – who are you to argue?

The End