The Precipice

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

Setting: Season 3

A/N: i always have trouble getting past chapter 2 for some reason... this took longer than i wanted it to. the next one should be up sooner (but i can't make any promises). and thank you to everyone who's reviewed so far. enjoy! :)

The lamp
flickers in the bedroom.

She must feel as awkward...whore-house Arizona

She hasn't been sleeping well.

It's been a while since she's had a moment to herself, the available opportunity to properly bring everything into focus and set her mind straight.

Unfortunately, she can't seem to be able to do much of that lately. She can't think straight. She's had very little time to herself; the hospital is in the middle of a financial crisis (which of course has turned into a having-to-fire-employees crisis) and she has a nagging, foreboding feeling that at the end of the week when Vincent is back from his business trip, her love life will probably be battered beyond recognition. She has House on her mind and the lingering scent of Vincent's cologne on her sheets, and she just can't think.

Jogging usually helps with that. Key word being 'usually'.

Cuddy stumbles, but rights herself before any real damage is done, and takes a breath as she toes aside the stick she nearly broke her neck over. But then, she stops, realization hitting her as she bends down to retrieve the offending object that is definitely not a stick.

She scoffs disbelievingly, her narrowed eyes landing on the pair of Nike sneakers a mere foot from herself and trailing up the length of wrinkled jeans, some obscure rock T-shirt, up to the scruffy gray beard (that on anyone else she would probably say needed to be shaved) to the slight quirk of his lips and the look of amusement in his eyes.

"Did you lose something?" she asks sarcastically, though she makes no move to hand over his cane.

"Your form is off; you need to regulate your breathing better."

"I know how to regulate my breathing, thanks," she snaps.

"My bad, you seemed a little rusty. Thought I could give you some tips." House arches an eyebrow when he says the last word, and Cuddy tries not to think about what he could possibly be insinuating with that comment.

"What are you doing here?" She started jogging here, coincidentally after she discovered it was House's new avoid-clinic-duty-and-all-general-work-responsibilities hiding spot, and found that it, somehow ironically enough, served as a better atmosphere than her own neighborhood.

"I got here about five minutes before you did. You can unclench. I'm not following you."

"I didn't think you were. I was curious, not suspicious. I know you don't think there's a difference—"

"If anyone should be suspicious, it should be me. This is my jogging park."

"So you invent parks now, too?" she asks, smirking.

"In my spare time, in between smiting and damning those who dare to doubt me.

She ignores his comment, and instead takes the unopened water bottle sitting next to him, all the while wondering about the line he fed her about not following her. He lies about nearly everything, there's little to no reason why he wouldn't lie about this.

"So, are you going to give me my cane back?"

"Are you going to tell me why you're here?"

"Already did."

"You really surprised that I don't believe you?" she asks with a pointed look.

He shrugs and tries a different approach. "Maybe it's fate."

"You don't believe in fate," Cuddy can't help but scoff.

"You're right, I don't." He shrugs again. "Seemed like a good day to go jogging. Or, to watch people go jogging," he corrects himself.

"And the water?"

"I was thirsty. You seemed thirstier. You're welcome, by the way."

She narrows her eyes in slight suspicion, though concedes to a hesitant smile. "Thank you."

"Cookie?"

She stares pointedly at the opened package of Oreo's in his hand. "What's wrong with them?"

"Nothing. Have one; they're delish."

"I just ran for three miles. I don't think so."

"Live a little. Even if Vinny thinks you're fat, doesn't mean the rest of the male population shares his opinion."

"You've never even met him, and you're trying to use him to insult me?"

"Not insult you, persuade you. Come on over to the dark side, Cuddy." He holds the small bag of cookies out towards her and she thinks she recognizes the expression on his face as something genuine. She grabs one and takes a small bite, all the while keeping her eyes on him and her mind focused on him, in her kitchen, invading her space and talking about games.

"What is this?"

"Chocolatey goodness filled with icing whose ingredients I'm not entirely sure of."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

He still doesn't answer her original question, and she decides that it's ultimately best to save that conversation for a later time. She takes a seat next to him on top of the wooden table, her bare shoulder pressed into his. She doesn't admit how good the sugary substance tastes on her tongue, or how much more relaxed she feels sitting here, next to him.

(She wishes it didn't mean anything.)

"What are you doing?"

His hand immediately freezes above the paperwork that he was filling out for his latest patient and Wilson frowns, surprised by the interruption and confused by the abrupt nature of the question. And the gleam of determination in Cuddy's eyes definitely has him feeling a little troubled. (Though, if he's honest with himself, he doesn't know if he's more frightened or more turned on.) He isn't sure what the hell he's supposed to do right now. "What, do you mean like right now?"

"Are you seeing someone? Did you meet a new friend that you don't want House to know about? Join a book club?"

"No. When would I have time to join a—?"

"House is up to something. It's almost like he's been..." Cuddy trails off, shaking her head. "I mean, he can not honestly be so affected by a kiss that barely even lasted a minute so I can only assume that he's screwing with me because his feelings are hurt because you're neglecting him."

"House doesn't get his feelings hurt," he dismisses before he realizes what she just said. "Wait a minute, you two kissed?"

"House didn't tell you?"

"No."

"He didn't say anything?"

"No," he insists for the second time.

"Did he… say anything to you about what happened three months ago?"

"No…. Why? What happened three months ago?"

"I—Nothing. It was nothing."

"Obviously," Wilson retorts sarcastically. "I thought you were seeing someone?"

"I was— I am," she corrects quickly, rolling her eyes.

"But you two... kissed? Is that all that happened?"

"You know what? It's nothing. Never mind. I'll handle it."

"Handle what?"

"Just forget I ever said anything. Okay?"

"...oh-kay," Wilson agrees slowly, though he's not entirely certain what he's agreeing to, exactly.

Waiting in line at the cafeteria lunch line seems to take forever. He pays for two sandwiches, two bags of extra salty potato chips, and two sodas, his mind churning all the while with about a dozen and a half different questions. Wilson still hasn't decided which one he's going to ask first by the time he makes his way to House's office.

House is sitting at his desk, tossing his red and gray ball into the air, his feet propped up carelessly on top of various piles of paperwork and junk mail. His eyes narrow immediately upon seeing Wilson entering his office bearing gifts, a look of eager anticipation in his eyes. A look House has honestly been hoping to avoid dealing with for as long as possible.

Wilson takes the seat on the other side of his desk, and House takes an unnecessarily sloppy bite of his sandwich while keeping one eye on the level of his fidgeting. After nearly five and a half minutes of silence- and after House has eaten a bag of chips and more than half of his sandwich-Wilson finally breaks the lid he's been trying to keep on his gossiping addiction and ungracefully blurts out, "What the hell happened between you and Cuddy three months ago?"

Subtle.

House tilts his head to the side, taking a moment to think of a response or, more accurately, a deflection. "I thought that we should finally tell you that you were adopted," he deflects. "She didn't think you were emotionally mature enough to handle it. I'm starting to think that she was right."

"House, seriously, just tell me what's going on. Did you two—?"

"You already know what's going on. You just want the dirty details of how it happened. And probably the when and where, since you've been sleeping on my couch for the past six months and she's been sporadically shacking up with what's-his-face for the past three."

"So you did sleep together, then. Was there alcohol involved? A double lobotomy, perhaps?"

"Such a shame all that wit is wasted on an oncologist," House replies dryly.

Wilson rolls his eyes, ignoring the dig and choosing to focus on getting information out of his friend. "So, are you two together, or—"

"Okay, see, this is exactly why I didn't tell you."

"Seriously? Are we role playing? Since when do you care what I think about your relationships?"

"We're not in a relationship. And I still don't care what you think."

"Yes you do."

"No," House insists, taking the open bag of chips from Wilson's hand, "I don't."

"If you didn't, you wouldn't be continuing this conversation and you would have already been halfway to the elevator by now."

"Have you forgotten that I'm down to only one good leg? Can't exactly perfect any Speedy Gonzalez impersonations."

"So, is she going to keep seeing that guy, the architect?"

House shrugs, conveniently choosing to stare into the now empty bag of potato chips. "As far as I know."

"...You going to do something about that?"

She opens her door, expecting the delivery man from China Palace. She tries not to let her irritation show at finding House, once again, on her porch, holding a paper bag in one hand and balancing two cans of soda on top of each other in the other hand.

"You're becoming predictable."

"Bite your tongue," he retorts. "You going to let me in? "

She narrows her eyes.

"If I go, the food goes, too."

She rolls her eyes, taking the bag of food from him to keep him from losing his balance. (Only because she'd rather he not fall and break his face on her property, not because she cares anything about what happens to him. Not at all.)

"What is it with Jews and Chinese food?" he comments idly.

"You actually paid for my food?" she asks in disbelief.

"Sun Yi gave me a discount; we bonded over our mutual love of your cleavage. And don't worry. You can always pay me back in sexual favors."

"Yeah, I'll get right on that. Why don't you drop your pants so I can get started."

"Seriously?"

"What do you think?"

"I think...I need to choose my words very carefully so that this turns out right."

"It's not going to happen."

"I'm still waiting for you to tell me why, exactly, you came here, paid for my food, with no guarantee that I would even let you in this time."

Predictably, House ignores the answer she's fishing for. "You're not wearing the ring. Is he still out of town or did you finally realize you're wasting your time?"

"None of your business," she answers shortly.

"Actually—"

"You're seriously going to try to defend whatever sick reasoning you've come up with to justify butting into my relationship?"

She can hear the echo of the silent question "What relationship?" but Cuddy chooses to ignore it. She hasn't spoken to Vincent much since he left, no ground breaking conversations about the bizarre state of limbo their relationship seems to be stuck in, and they certainly haven't talked about the fact that his 'proposal' was met with a level of apprehensiveness and skepticism that made her nauseous (and probably would have made House proud). There are certain aspects of her life, of her, that she's kept from him that she couldn't realistically imagine the two of them entering a marriage.

Of course, one of the biggest aspects of her life Vincent has yet to discover happens to be in her living room, sitting on her couch and arranging paper plates on her coffee table.

"So is this your plan? Seduce me over disposable cutlery and inexpensive takeout?"

"I didn't have to try so hard the first time. Didn't even have to buy you dinner, if I remember correctly."

"Different time, different place, and a completely different person."

"You're not as different as you think you are."

She doesn't dispute that one because, in spite of everything, there is a strong possibility that he may be right.

They spend about an hour eating on her couch, sharing Kung Pao chicken and lo mein noodles, and the time passes with surprisingly little to no arguments. (Or, no particularly volatile arguments, anyway.)

When Cuddy feels herself getting a little too comfortable with the situation, she stands abruptly, making a pointed show of looking at the clock which reads 10:30. "It's late."

"Is that your subtle way of asking me to come to bed?"

"House."

"Right. I get it." He nods and stands, making his way towards the door. She feels her suspicion make a return at how unexpectedly easy that was.

"You're not going to try to manipulate me into letting you stay longer?"

He turns to face her and arches an eyebrow. "Do you want me to?"

"...I should probably call Vincent," she evades, looking away from him. "His flight gets in tomorrow."

"Nice deflection."

"Learned from the best."

They stand awkwardly in her hallway for a moment and she knows, without even looking, that House is staring at her, analyzing her. "...so are you going to go do that now?"

"I should," she repeats firmly, but remains rooted to the spot, less than a foot away from him.

"Yeah, you probably should."

She doesn't.