The Precipice

Setting: season 3

Summary: "Guess you don't know me as well as you claim to." Better, he wants to say. House/Cuddy

She shakes
like the morning railway

Checking me out
with someone on her shoulder.

She is well aware of the fact that it probably (definitely) isn't healthy—or helpful— for her to think of him as often as she does.

Thoughts of House invade her sleep, interrupt the peace and calm of her dreams by reminding her that she can never hide from what she really wants, no matter how hard she tries to. It shouldn't mean so much to her, one stupid reckless night nearly three months ago, not when she has all that she ever could with the man lying next to her. Or, at least, she has the possibility.

Vincent might not necessarily be who she wants but he is offering to do for her everything that House can't—or won't—do.

Some nights, she finds herself lying on her back, eyes screwed shut, afraid that if she turns over she will only see what she wants to see and not what is actually there— and she knows that will only result in her being disappointed.

And she's had enough of that.

The knock on the door comes late the next night; she is so sure she knows who it is and why he's here that Cuddy takes her time, trudging to the door as if she's being forced to walk the plank.

Her mind rushes to come up with an excuse as to why she won't be able to let him in, because for the first time in a long while her bed is empty; Vincent being out of town on business. She wonders if House times these things.

And then, she shakes her head. Of course he does.

She takes a deep breath before opening the door, just wide enough for her to lean her head against it but not enough for him to be able to step through the space easily. "What are you doing here?" she asks him, not really expecting an answer. "It's the middle of the night."

"So?"

"So," she echoes mockingly, "I'm tired. You need to leave."

"Why—is he here?"

"No, but…" That's exactly why you shouldn't be here, she thinks, but she'd never be able to admit that, not out loud, and definitely not to him.

"Then what's the problem?" He smirks knowingly, and she has to fight the burgeoning and almost overwhelming urge to punch him in the face. "What, you don't trust yourself to be alone with me?"

Besides, if she really didn't want him here, she never would have answered the door once she looked through the peephole and saw that it was him standing on her doorstep. And she wouldn't have just let him push past her to stand in her foyer. Cuddy closes the door behind him with a sigh, feigning extreme annoyance in an attempt to cover up her nervousness.

He's leaning over her, looming, technically, taking advantage of his height and forcing her to look up at him. She likes to let him think he can be intimidating but really, she can see right through him. (But, she isn't quite sure that she will ever tell him that.)

"House, just tell me why you're—"

"Leave him."

"What?" she scoffs, disbelievingly. "You aren't seriously standing there, and asking me to—"

"I'm not asking you to do anything. Leave him."

"You don't get to come here and make demands. That's not how this works."

"Really? How does 'this' work, then?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it. This isn't anything. It's nothing!"

"You're awfully worked up over 'nothing'."

She shakes her head, furious and unnerved by the fact that he's succeeding in getting under her skin, turns on her heel and heads to her kitchen to make a pot of tea. She doesn't ask if he wants anything, partly out of spite, and partly because she is still clinging to the hopeless delusion that he won't be staying long.

House spots the ring she took off a mere three hours after the hospital party the other night, and that has been sitting innocently on her coffee table ever since, untouched but not unnoticed. He follows her into the kitchen, choosing to stand less than two feet behind her; she can feel the breath of his exhale on the back of her neck. "You know, you're only leading him on by keeping that thing."

"Who says I'm leading him on?" she retorts, challengingly, turning around to face him. She leans against the counter top, feigning indifference to his close proximity (and the distracting combination of the scent of his leather jacket and aftershave). He shoots her a look.

"…He told me that he's willing to wait for my decision," she admits hesitantly.

"For how long?"

"As long as I need."

"He's full of shit."

"Why? Because he wants to actually consider what I want and is willing to wait for me to decide?"

"He shouldn't have to."

"Oh, now all of a sudden you're the advocate for this relationship? No less than five minutes ago you were telling me—"

"If you really wanted to be with him, seriously, you would already know by now."

He's right, though Cuddy is more than willing to add this fact to the list of things she's never going to tell him. "And…you wouldn't have slept with me three months ago."

She rolls her eyes and exhales deeply through her nose. "You would bring that up."

"You don't think it's relevant?"

"I think of it more as a lapse in judgment. I'd had a little bit too much to drink that night and I'd been feeling vulnerable because Vincent and I were fighting—"

House lets out a noise somewhere in between a scoff and a grunt. "You were not 'vulnerable'. Nowhere near it. Especially not when you were telling me how to—"

She slams the kettle down onto the stove, and then turns off the burner. "Shut up."

"How serious can you possibly be about a guy that you keep cheating on?"

"I do not 'keep cheating' on—"

"Kissing someone who isn't your boyfriend? You do that often?"

"You are such an ass."

"He can't be what you want."

"He's not an ass."

"So, what, he wins by default?"

"'Wins'? Nobody 'wins', House, this isn't dodge-ball."

"Does Victor know you're settling for him?"

"I'm not settling," Cuddy insists. "Vincent is…what I need."

"Thought you said the two couldn't be mutually exclusive."

"I changed my mind," she offers up primly.

"No, you settled."

"You're only here to see if I would break up with him to be with you. You don't actually want to have a relationship with me."

The fact that it is a statement and not a question is deliberate, and planned. Cuddy can't afford to risk getting her hopes up when it comes to Gregory House and commitment.

Somehow, still, without truly thinking beforehand about the consequences, she asks him, "… Do you?"

"Quit deflecting onto me. This isn't about what I want."

"Yes, it is. It is partly about you, more than you care to admit, especially when you come to my house in the middle of the night to play these little games."

"What if I told you I was done with the games?"

House takes a step forward, his hands resting on either side of her. She keeps her arms crossed over her stomach, refusing to give in to the innate desire to rest her rest her hands against his chest, to reach out and touch the skin that she can get a glimpse of through the opening at the collar of his shirt.

"…I probably wouldn't believe you," she informs him, jutting out her chin challengingly. (She vainly hopes that he won't notice the husky quality her voice has taken on, or that her breathing is hitched, quicker.) She swallows thickly when he leans closer, the heat from his body making her palms moist and her throat dry.

He smirks, his eyes boring into hers, searching for something though she's not sure what, and after nearly two minutes of a silent stare down, Cuddy begins to feel uneasy, suspicious. And that feeling only increases when he responds.

"Good."