The sound of running water, then a door opening. Cuddy sat straight up, her blood pounding in her ears. Someone was in her house…where's the phone? Call the police! Wait…do burglars take the time to wash their hands? Of course not. Then she remembered.

House.

He had passed out on her couch.

He was still there, doing who knows what in her home.

She heard him cough, then his footsteps as he walked back down the hall. Lights from the front of the house spilled into the hallway. She didn't hear the TV and guessed that he might be in the kitchen. It was two in the morning. Who knows how long it had been since he had eaten anything. She got up, padded to the closet for a robe, then went to see what he was up to.

She was right, he was in the kitchen. House had evidently made himself at home; there was a pot of fresh coffee on and a crumb-covered plate in the sink. At the table were a steaming mug, a bottle of Vicodin, and a red-eyed and flushed House playing solitaire with the deck of cards she kept in the junk drawer.

"The taxi never showed up," he remarked coolly, never taking his eyes off the cards.

"I never called it," she replied, getting herself a glass of water, then joining him at the table.

"I didn't think so."

"It was easier to let you stay here and sleep it off."

"Your concern is so touching." The sneer in his voice made it sound like an accusation.

"Any migraines?" she asked. House had been susceptible to blinding migraines ever since the bus crash. She had seen them in action and they weren't pretty.

"Not lately. Where in your bedroom did you hide your alcohol?"

"What makes you think I have any alcohol?"

"You answered my question with a question. That tells me everything I need to know right there. And you don't want me drinking anything right now. That didn't stop me from snooping in your cabinets to see if you left anything behind. Besides, I spent the night here once before, remember? We had a glass or two of wine before and after I fucked you senseless."

"You always were a romantic," Cuddy said blithely. "It's a wonder why we never slept together again."

House grinned. "The wine is either in your bottom drawer or the closet. I'd say the closet. There are more nooks and crannies and corners to stuff them in there."

"Were you in my bedroom?"

"Not tonight, but I was two years ago. Do you still have the pink sheets?"

"No, I bought some new bedding last year. My sheets are now yellow."

"Still all frou-frou and girly, I'll bet."

Cuddy decided to take control of the conversation and get to the task at hand. "How's your head?"

"Mentally or physically?" House asked, setting aside the ace of diamonds.

"You were smashed this evening, House." Cuddy reached over and tilted his chin up. "Your eyes are still red." She felt his forehead. He flinched as if being given an electric shock. "You have a fever."

He scowled, then went back to his game. "It's a fever, a low grade fever, not the Ebola virus. I'll live."

"Are you going to get smashed every night now?"

"Sounds like a good idea to me."

"It's not."

"I still say it is."

"You need help, House."

"Help with what?" He looked up; his eyes were ice. "Just what do I need help with, Cuddy? Do tell."

"You're an addict, you're depressed-"

"I know I'm an addict. I don't need any help figuring that one out, thank you very much. I know I'm depressed and miserable, so I don't need help with those either. I know I nearly killed myself trying to save Amber at the request of my best friend. I know my best friend still hates my guts anyway. I know my underlings could care less whether I live or die. I know my boss is beating a dead horse."

"You think no one cares about you, House?" Cuddy asked.

"I know no one cares about me."

"I care about you."

He snorted and said, "Well, that just changes everything. All is right with the world now."

She reached across the table and brushed her fingers along the back of his hand. That time he didn't flinch, he just kept sorting through the deck.

"Such pretty, pretty words," he remarked. "I'm sure you believe each and every one of them."

Cuddy blinked. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"Everybody lies, Cuddy. Even you."

"I meant each and every word I said," she declared. "That was no lie."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

Setting down a king, House glanced up and asked, "Are you willing to put your money where your mouth is, Doctor?"

"How much money?"

"I don't mean literal money. Do you really care about me?"

"Of course."

"A few pretty words aren't nearly enough to convince me. You have to prove it," he challenged.

"How?" she puzzled, taking a sip of her water and wondering just what House would demand of her.

"Let's see," House began as he finished up his game, gathered up the cards, shuffled, and began to deal himself a new game. "I need something and someone to remind myself that I still exist and still matter. You say you care."

"I do care."

"So you've said. Maybe someday I'll actually believe it. What I do believe in the here and the now is that you don't want me to get smashed every night."

"No, I don't. I can't you have doing that."

"I have to agree with you there." House glanced up and noted the look of surprise rippling across her features. "What to do…what to do…"

"What do you want, House?"

"I want to see if you really, truly care. You let me come over here every now and then, keep me company for a while, remind me that the world is a truly wonderful and snazzy place. Can you handle that?"

"House, I'm no psychiatrist."

"I don't need a psychiatrist. Right now I need someone to be with me."

"Isn't that what psychiatrists do?"

"No. They're not in the business to actually sit with you for an hour and care. They charge hundreds of dollars an hour to fuck with your mind. I can get that from any bum living in a dumpster for free. I need someone who isn't paid to pretend to care."

"All right. I guess I can see your side of it. Suppose I agree to this arrangement you're asking for," she began, already knowing she would have to agree to it…at least for a while. "What's in it for me?"

An ace was in his hands. House set aside and placed some matching number cards with it and chuckled at her question. "Good one, Doctor. When I'm over here I won't drink. Is that good enough for you?"

"Not just yet," she replied, tapping her nails against her glass of water. "How often do you want to come over?"

"As often as you'll let me in."

"There are times when both of us work several days straight. If we come to some sort of agreement on what you're asking, that's not going to change."

"I understand that. And I'm not asking it to." He set the queen of diamonds on the king of spades, then flipped the cards over to start shuffling through them again.

In a stern voice, she said, "If you're going to come over, you're not just going to sit on your ass and watch TV. You will talk to me."

House paused, the cards nearly spilling out his hands. "Talk about what?"

"Your problems. Your life. Whatever is on your mind. But you will talk to me. That's your admission price for coming over to my home."

"So you're agreeing to it?" He looked up and met her eyes.

"If you agree to my condition, yes, we can give it a try." Cuddy matched his gaze, ice blue against ice blue.

After a few beats, House said, "You're on. Can you handle me two nights in a row?"

"I believe I can."

"We'll see, won't we?"

"Yes, we will," she agreed. "I'll be here tomorrow night, Dr. House."

He gave her a crooked smile. "See you tomorrow, Dr. Cuddy."