After leaving Cuddy's place, they arrived at House's. He disappeared into his room and returned with a sweatshirt and some pajama pants, mumbling, "Take these."

She stared at the clothes he held out in his hand, and she snarled her lip at them, "I'm fine with this."

"You're cold."

"I'm fine," she insisted, until he pointed at her arms. Her skin was prickled and she seemed to be shivering, but she was too stunned to notice. She took the clothes as she said, "Thanks. Can I use your shower?"

"Should probably give the wounds on your side twenty-four hours."

"I won't take a bath, just a shower." House shook his head disapprovingly until she whispered while she looked at the clothes in her hand, "I can still smell him on me—in my hair, on my skin."

That fact struck him with disproportionate strength while he was reminded of just how close they came to complete disaster. The fact that another possible victim was comatose further inflamed his concerns. "The ones on your side are deep. Make it quick and try to keep the water away from that whole area."

She was in there longer than she should have been, but he wanted to put her on antibiotics anyway. Not doing so was a miss on his part, and the fact that something so obvious slipped his mind irritated him even more. For some reason, he walked up and down the hall while she was in there, finding excuses like changing into warmer clothes or getting something to read from his room. When she got out of the shower, he rushed to the sofa, not wanting her to know he had stayed by so close.

When she emerged, wearing the clothes he had given her, she seemed to notice more acutely how much her side hurt, but he assumed that shock was hiding much of the pain from her conscious thought. House poured two glasses of scotch and handed one to her before he quickly drank his own while he watched her stare at the door.

She asked to use his landline to check her voicemail while he watched an infomercial. Soon he realized she checked her voicemail three times in ten minutes. "Do you get a lot of work-related calls at three am?"

"It's a hospital."

"No shit, you work for a hospital?"

"I mean I can't control when the calls come because emergencies don't occur between nine and five."

"Can't you have your number forwarded here?"

"How long do you think I'm going to sit here in your apartment? Tomorrow I'll call and have the window fixed, meet someone to check on the security and everything will be fine."

"It's that easy?"

"Yea."

House saw she was still shaking a bit, although subtly. He poured her another drink while she dialed her voicemail again and she scowled at him, "Are you trying to give me alcohol poisoning?"

"There's a doctor who lives in this building. He takes a lot of drugs, but it's better than nothing. You'll be fine."

She started sipping the next one. When she hung up, he said, "You can take my room if you stop calling your voicemail like a jealous girlfriend."

He leaned into the corner of the sofa, his feet up on the coffee table and looked like he was trying to sleep. She got up, walking to his lounge chair and sitting down instead of going to his room. He swallowed the snarky comment that was on the tip of his tongue about her inability to leave him out of her sight.

There were a few noises like the building settling, the ticking of plumbing and heat, cars outside driving by, things that seemed to constantly put her on edge. He was a lot jumpier than he thought he would be, too. He thought about getting up and pacing when he had trouble relaxing, but decided he didn't want to wake Cuddy since she was lucky enough to sleep. Then he realized that she wasn't sleeping when he could hear her pacing over the floor boards behind him.

She walked around and sat on the sofa, "Are you awake?"

"Yea."

"They have your phone and they had your wallet."

"Nothing is missing from the wallet, but yea. They didn't have time to empty it before they took off. Why?"

"But they had it."

"Yea."

"Which means that they might know where you live, too."

"They couldn't have seen it. It was dark."

"Are you completely sure? Are you certain there isn't any identifying information on your phone? There aren't that many Houses around here, so even if there's a text with your name-"

"There are tons of houses."

She didn't find his joke funny, "They might know where you live."

A car pulled up out front. She tried to look calm while she walked to the window and peered out. The suggestion rang through his head when he realized just how correct she might be. He worriedly rubbed his stubble, but his eyes were wide.

"I don't want to stay here. If staying at my place was idiotic, staying here is idiotic, too."

"Let's try to sleep for an hour or two. When it's daylight, we'll figure out what we're going to do."

"We? Are you going to follow me around forever?"

"It's only been a few hours. Besides, that was some pretty tough shit you pulled back there. Maybe I want you to keep an eye on me. You have steel balls, Cuddy."

She didn't smile, she was already worried about the next step, picking up his home phone again. He pulled the jack from the receiver. "We'll call your assistant later and she can forward anything important to you. Just lie down and try to sleep for an hour."

She sat in the other corner of the sofa, putting her feet up on the coffee table like his were. They both nestled into their ends, as far apart as they could be while on the same piece of furniture, when they heard a noise right outside of House's door. Cuddy jumped up, her arm resting against her side before she went to investigate. "It's my neighbor. He always comes home around now," House explained, trying to sound calm although he could feel his heart thumping in his chest.

Cuddy was pacing near the door, clearly unable to relax. House finally decided it wasn't worth it, "Do you want to go to a fucking hotel?"

She nodded, "It's safer than waiting here. Somewhere decent, though."

"You don't have any money, you're not in a position to be particular."

"I'll reimburse you."

House gathered some belongings while Cuddy continued to stare at the door. She insisted on driving since she'd had less to drink, but she was so consumed by anxiety from the attack that it probably wasn't safe to let her. House handed his credit card to the person at the front desk and ordered one room without asking Cuddy. She seemed uncomfortable at each person who saw them. They were a sight, the pair of them. She was drowning in House's clothes and favoring one side, and he had a freshly stitched and bruised face and his walk seemed more painful than normal. At hotels like this one, the employees usually treated her with total respect, but that night, she was more of a spectacle.

As soon as she was in the room, she went for the phone. House took it from her hand, calling the number for her assistant and leaving a message on her voicemail that explained how to reach Cuddy in the event of an emergency. When he hung up, she was seething, "You do not get to make decisions for me. I'm not some weak princess in a tower who needs you to take care of me because I can't handle it."

"No one would dream of calling you a princess," he snarked.

"I have handled things far worse than this."

"Probably not."

"And you'd just love it if I would fall apart."

"I really wouldn't."

"You're enjoying this."

"Oh yea," he responded with derision, "this is like a dream come true."

"Screw you. You do not control me or my work. I'm still your boss, and don't forget it."

"First of all, we aren't at work, so you aren't my boss here. Second, this isn't about me trying to control you."

"It always is."

House grabbed her wrist and she pulled back, asking angrily, "What are you doing?" He held his hand out, palm up, trying to get her to willingly come to him. "You want to hold my hand?" she scoffed.

"Yes," he countered dryly, "I thought we could tell inspirational stories until we feel better." His voice softened, "I'm not going to hurt you."

"I'm not afraid of you," she answered, sounding like she had been insulted.

"You have no reason to be," he responded, holding out his hand and waiting.

As a rule, she was always more comfortable with physical contact than he was, although she was hardly the most touchy-feely person around, but it looked like the decision to touch him was a complicated one. She slapped her wrist into his hand, rolling her eyes impatiently. He folded most of her fingers down, guiding the two that were still extended to the pulse point in her neck. "Feel that," he said, roughly. "You aren't worried?"

Her face actually seemed stunned when she felt how rapid her heartbeat was, but she tried to argue back, "Of course it's elevated, I'm arguing with you."

"That's not why. It's been this high for hours. You're pacing, your pupils are dilated, you're unbelievably hyper-vigilant, and you're still shaking."

"I'm cold," she answered, uncertainly.

"I know what happened tonight. I was there."

"If only I was as strong as you."

"Tonight fucked you up. If it didn't fuck you up, there is something wrong with you."

"I can handle it."

"I know," he answered so casually that his compliance stunned her. "You'll be alright. But you aren't alright right now."

She laughed, knowingly, "This is all part of these games you've been playing. If I don't learn from the past, I'm going to repeat it. You're trying to push me away, to piss me off so I'll leave you alone. Then, when I really leave you alone, you'll show up to pretend to be there for me, and if I allow you to be there for me, you'll get mad at me for allowing it. I don't want to play this game."

"No games."

"I'm only here with you because I can't go home."

"That- - is a lie."

"It's so weird that you're completely fine about all this, like this is something that happens to you every day and it's no big deal!"

"I'm not fine," he screamed louder than her, stopping as soon as he realized how loud he'd been.

He had been making attempts to be patient and calm, at least for him, but the stress of the day and too long without sleep began to wear away on him. He felt an unexpected remorse spreading almost instantly until he realized something. Cuddy was startled by the sounds of pipes, passersby and sounds it seemed only she was hearing, but she was not at all startled by the sound of him, screaming in her face. He was one of the few things she still seemed at ease with.

She did look startled when hotel security came to find out if everyone was alright and to warn them to keep it quiet. After security talked with Cuddy to ensure that she, too, was alright, the two were alone again.

"Try to sleep," he said, finding sleeping pills in his bag and giving them to her. "I'll keep my eye on the door. Nothing's going to happen."

"Why should I trust you?"

He thought at first before he answered, "I have no idea why. But you obviously do."

It was the strangest thing to him, but she slept. Not peacefully, but she did rest, wrapped in too many blankets and waking every thirty or forty minutes, but at least it was something. When she had been asleep intermittently for almost three hours, someone tapped on the door and slammed it part way open until it hit the swing lock that they'd latched. Cuddy bolted up, immediately fully alert and completely ready to defend herself.

Housekeeping staff wrongfully assumed the room was empty, likely because they had checked in so late. House angrily went to the door, shooing away the person on the other side. When he turned back, Cuddy was yelling, "I thought you were watching the door."

"They were coming to restock towels, not do us bodily harm."

"I'm fine," she said, completely unconvincingly, still scattered and uncertain.

"Yea, you seem great," he retorted.

"Even this is a joke to you."

"It isn't a joke. You just need to relax. Soon, those two will be in custody and things will start to feel better, you'll feel back in control and your world will start to make sense again."

"This is about me being a control freak?"

House carefully lowered his body onto the bed, "We need to stop talking. Give me an hour to sleep and then we'll go take care of what needs done."

"I am not a control freak," she snapped, continuing the argument.

"I didn't say that, but clearly you are. Shut up, I'm tired. I don't feel like getting thrown out of this hotel because they think we're beating the fuck out of each other."

He felt the bed shift, and the next thing he knew, she was beside him, holding his hands down to the bed. "I'm a control freak because I'm upset that I was almost raped? That fucker was grinding his dick against my ass. Could you hear the shit he was whispering to me, feel his fucking breath and the horrible goddamn smell of his body? Do you want him to do that to you?"

"No."

"I didn't either."

"I wasn't going to stand by and let him do that to you," he said, staring into her eyes, "and neither were you. It didn't happen because you used your head and we got through. You can't expect everything to instantly feel fine."

She suddenly straddled him, her hands holding his into place on the bed. "You don't know what that was like. I could barely move. I couldn't get away."

"I know what it feels like to not have control over what people do to you. I know what it feels like to be bullied by someone much stronger. It's not the same, but I get the basics."

He was the person that she trusted, and in some way, it seemed there was a measure of confidence coming back from the fact that she was subduing him.

"You should get up," he said after a second.

"You hate being out of control, too," she argued.

"It's not that. Really, you should get up."

She looked down at their bodies and sneered, "Are you getting turned on? Talking about rape turns you on?"

"No. It doesn't." A look of disgust settled on her face so he spoke carefully, "Does this feel the same? You have me pinned under you. I'm not fighting you. How is this a good example of what happened to you?"

"I'm trying to prove a point."

"You can't prove that point to me. The thought of being subdued and ridden by you is not one of my top ten fears, you're traveling dangerously into fantasy territory here. I'm not turned on by rape but this scenario is not rape."

"You wanted me stop."

"I'm trying to be a good guy here. After what happened to you- - -"

She nodded, apparently appreciating the gesture. She moved slightly lower, still over him but in a less provocative location.

"I asked you a question," he abruptly continued, "does this feel the same?"

There was no answer.

"I wouldn't do that you. I might push and I might walk away, but I would never try to hurt you like he did," he continued. "And you know that. This—does not feel like that. And I'm not worried about you overpowering me."

"Because you think you can get away?"

"Because I know you."

"I don't even know if I want to go back to my own home."

"Sometimes home is the worst place to go."

"How do I make it stop?" she asked, leaning over him, letting go of his wrists and moving them to the bed on either side of his neck. "I feel like things will never be the way they were."

"They'll never be exactly the same," he answered, honestly. "What happened will probably always be part of your memory. But it won't be so recent and even if things aren't exactly the same, it will be better than it is right now."

His voice was low, sort of calming. She moved in closer, and he could tell she was going to kiss him. "You don't want to do what you're going to do," he warned, more gruffly.

"You're right about one thing. You don't feel like he felt. You feel- -good."

She let their lips touch for a second, she could feel the sigh, the same one she'd sensed so recently when he started to surrender to a kiss. He slid his hands over the crisp yet soft sheets, palms up, and partially stuck his fingers under her hands so he wouldn't do anything to direct her. There was a battle within him, the desire to seek a soothing touch and offer her the same thing, but he knew she wasn't fully herself. She hadn't been since the attack. Her voice was monotone, she seemed disconnected overall.

Her eyes looked at him, backing away a little. Her lips were already flushed, full and slightly parted. With certainty, he said, "I'm taking advantage of you if something happens here."

"No you're not," she answered softly before her lower lip dragged over his.

"You're just reacting to what happened, you're looking for something that you think will make you feel better, help you forget," he said, his argument sounding less ardent than his words.

"What's wrong with that?" she asked before she really started kissing him.

Her tongue parted his lips almost instantly, and in a second, any of his hesitation was fluttering away while he started to kiss back. She felt good, they were sharing in the need and comfort of each other. It felt intense, safe and distant from the harsh realities around them, like finding shelter in the midst of a terrible storm. He tried to lift his body, propping himself on his elbows, but the new position, the attempt to move, and the weight of her body on his ribs ripped him away from her and back onto the bed. He squinted at the pain in his side, his hands moving to the site of the pain involuntarily. She quickly pulled away from him, feeling her body's own ache while she tried to move too swiftly.

"I'll get you some ice," she said as she walked to the table where the ice bucket was.

"It's fine, just grab my Vicodin," he pointed at the bottle on the table near her.

She handed it to him, lifting his shirt to look at the bruising that had only darkened and become more painful looking. "I knew we should have taken you to X-ray."

"It's not broken," he snapped.

Cuddy grabbed the ice bucket again, quickly looking at the hotel map that hung on the door. He could see the way she tried to take breaths to steady herself while she picked up the keycard, and walked to the door. Her hand was on the handle, and House said with complete irritation, "Just forget it. It's fine. Don't get all worked up again."

Perhaps, in some way, what he had said was a challenge. It was both silly to imagine that she would have a problem walking the short distance to an ice machine, and, at the same time, it seemed a daunting task. She was ignoring him, gathering resolve one final time before she swung the door open and walked into the hall. He was stunned, sitting up in the bed as carefully as he could and staring at the door. It was pulled shut, and he heard her try the lock three times to make sure it was latched so he would be safe. Then he waited.

He didn't even think of following her. Knowing Cuddy, if she set out to do something, she was going to accomplish it. But he could see the apprehension she felt before walking out that door alone. About three minutes later, he heard the key card in the lock and she reentered the room. She pushed the door shut after dropping two bags of ice on the floor, again checking the lock three times and engaging the other backup locks as well.

Turning toward him, she leaned against the closed door for a moment. She looked a bit flustered. Since the attack only hours earlier, she seemed to be obsessed with guarding and locking doors as a way to ease her anxiety, so being on the outside must have felt uncomfortable, but there was a quick smile across her face when she accomplished a menial task with monumental implications.

And he couldn't help but make note of the fact that she braved her fears to get something to ease his pain. Realizing that she was still leaning against the door, she turned and checked the locks again before she picked up the ice bags and walked over the bed. "They had whole bags, I didn't even need the bucket," she commented.

She went about her task, gathering the thick towels from the bathroom, wrapping the bags of ice and returning to him. She placed the bags carefully around his sore ribs, and he nodded a show of appreciation. "Need anything else?" she asked.

"Sleep."

Cuddy seemed very much herself for those few minutes until she walked away to let House sleep. He noticed that she looked much less confident and at ease when her self-imposed task was complete, and she was left with unstructured time. His eyes started the flutter shut due to complete exhaustion, but before he fell asleep, he saw Cuddy. She was near the television, flipping channels at perfectly timed intervals with a remote while all of her attention remained on the door.