Author's note: Sorry to those who think I let House off the hook too quickly in this one. This is my fifth (!) post Moving On story (there's one called The Bogeyman that is on my LJ site but I never posted here, lest you think you've lost count) and I've done some other ones where I'm much harder on him. Anyway, I hope people enjoy this. (Special thanks to V, Anne, and the Gremlin for their help on this one.) Oh, and my apologies to the Harry Potter fangirls in advance.

House was home alone, sitting at the piano and drinking scotch. He played a few stray notes, took a swig, then played some more. He wasn't actually making music, he was killing time.

Jokes about killing time are taken seriously, he thought. And chuckled.

The phone rang. It was Wilson probably. Or, God forbid, a member of his team. Ever since he had tried to off himself, there had been a lot of nervous hovering, a lot of feigned casualness, a lot of people treating him like he was made of glass.

He let it ring.

The answering machine picked up:

"House? It's me—"

Upon hearing her voice, a chill actually went down his spine.

He leapt up from the piano bench, forgetting for a second that he was a cripple. Sharp pain shot down his leg. He didn't care. He lunged for the phone.

"I'm here," he panted.

"Hi," Cuddy said.

"Hi," he said.

"Are you okay? You sound out of breath."

"I'm fine. I was on the other side of the room . . .I . . . Wow. It's really you," he said.

He crumpled into the chair next to the phone.

"It's really me."

"It's good to hear your voice."

"Yours too, House."

There was a pause.

"How are you? How's Rachel?" he said finally.

"House, I didn't call for small talk," Cuddy said.

"Then why did you call?"

"To make sure you're okay. Are you?"

"What answer will keep you on the phone longer?" he cracked.

"The truth."

"I've been better," he admitted. "But I guess you know that already."

"Yeah," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't reach out to you when I came to the hospital . . I just couldn't bring myself to do it."

"I know."

"House, I've been sick with worry about you," she said. "I need you to promise me that you won't do something stupid like this ever again."

"I can't promise that," he said honestly. "But the fact that you care makes it somewhat less likely."

"That I care whether you live or die?" she snapped. "Don't insult me, House."

"Why should you care? I'm just the asshole who ruined your life."

"You did a terrible thing, yes," she said. "A terrible, reckless, unforgivable thing. But I can't just turn off my feelings for you. Anymore, I expect, than you can turn off your feelings for me."

"I care about you so much," he said. His voice cracked.

Cuddy sighed. She had promised herself she wasn't going to get emotional.

"I know you do, House."

"Dr. Ratner says that my . . ."

"Dr. Ratner? You talked to Andrew?"

"He had to do a psych evaluation before I could check out," House explained. "He decided I'm a miserable son-of-a-bitch. So in other words, Situation Normal, All Fucked Up."

"Snafu," Cuddy said, smiling to herself. It was a military term. House had learned it from his father.

"What else did he say?" she asked.

House was eyeing the bottle of scotch on the piano. He wished he'd had the presence of mind to grab it before he'd done his flying cripple routine across the room.

"He said that my, um, gesture. . .was just a fucked up way of apologizing to you," he said.

"Huh. That is fucked up," she agreed.

"I told him he was full of shit," House said. "But the more I thought about it, the more I think he's right. It's been torture not being able to talk to you."

"It's the way it had to be, House."

"Had? Past tense?"

"Well, we're talking now, aren't we?"

"Yes," he said. "Where are you calling from?"

"You haven't Googled me?" she said. "I'm stunned. And slightly hurt."

"I guess I was afraid that if I knew where you were, I wouldn't be able to stay away," House said.

"Thank you then," she said, meaning it.

"But hypothetically speaking, how many tanks of gas would it take if I wanted to see you tonight?"

"Nice try, House."

She laughed a bit. Music to his ears.

"Did I mention how incredibly good it is to hear your voice, Cuddy?" he said, leaning back in the chair.

"Yes," she said.

"Well, it is. And did I mention that I'm sorry?"

"Not yet."

"I'm sorry. Crashing my car into your house is the single biggest regret of my miserable life. And that's saying a lot."

"Yes it is," she agreed.

"But, you know, there's actually a perverse comfort in being to be able to point to the one day you completely fucked up your life. It has a certain clarity."

"It's the biggest regret of my life, too, House."

"You didn't do anything."

"I regret that you did it to me," she said.

They both let her words sink in for a while.

"I want to see you," he said.

"No."

"Then can I at least call you?"

"My number is blocked. It won't even show up on your caller ID."

"Then give it me. Please."

She hesitated for a long time.

Finally, she said, "Alright. Do you have pen and paper?"

"Don't need it," he said.

As if he could ever forget her number.
######

He called her the next night.

"When you said you were going to call, I didn't think you meant the next night," she said, laughing.

"Are you kidding? This is self restraint. I almost called you two hours after we hung up."

"Are you back at work?"

"Not yet. Monday," he said. He was sitting in his favorite chair. This time he had his scotch. He hadn't felt this relaxed in months.

"And Ratner? Are you going to see him again?"

"Appointment set up for Tuesday," House said.

"Good," Cuddy said. "He's the best."

"Best is a bit hyperbolic. But he's not a complete moron."

"That's high praise from you."

"How's life at the Washington International Medical Center?"

"So now you Googled me," she said.

"I had some free time on my hands," he said.

"It's. . .intense," she said.

"Chief of Medicine. Not bad, Cuddy. That hospital is—what—ten times bigger than PPTH?"

"Something like that," she said.

"I'm proud of you," he said.

And she was surprised how much his words meant to her.

"Thanks."

"I always knew you were too good for this shithole," he said. "And by shithole, I'm referring to PPTH. Not me. Although both are accurate."

She laughed.

"How's Rachel?" House asked.

"She's great House. She has her fifth birthday party next weekend. Can you believe it?"

"Five. Wow," House said.

"It has a Star Wars theme," Cuddy said. "For some reason she's obsessed with Star Wars these days."

"She is?"

The news rattled House a bit. He had shown Rachel Star Wars one night when Cuddy was working late. She had slept through most of it—with her thumb in her mouth, curlred up on his lap. But she had liked the Wookie. She was always asking House to make the Wookie noise.

It had to be a coincidence, right?

"Does she have a favorite character?" he managed to ask.

"The Wookie," Cuddy said, chuckling. "But she says I don't do the noise right."

House gulped.

"Does she ever. . .ask about me?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound casual.

"No House. I'm sorry, she doesn't. She used to ask for you all the time, of course. But she saw how much I tensed up when she brought up your name—kids are intuitive like that—so she stopped."

"Yeah," House said. "Makes sense."

"Yeah. . ."

"What else?" he said, recovering from his disappointment. "Tell me everything. Tell me everything about you. And your life. About Rachel. Catch me up."

"House, we dated for a year and you never once so much as asked me how my day was at work. Now suddenly you want the blow by blow?"

"Yes," he said. "I just want to hear you talk."

So she told him. She told him about her apartment in Georgetown—how she fell in love with the hardwood floors and bay window and couldn't keep a poker face in front of the realtor so she way overpaid. She told him about her job and the other doctors and the mounds of red tape she had to deal with ("makes Princeton Plainsboro seem like a hippie commune," she said). She didn't tell him about the man she had recently begun dating—Lloyd, a pulmonologist—but she told him everything else.

He listened intently. Asked pertinent questions. Inserted the occasional joke.

And when she looked at her watch, it was 1 in the morning.

"House, I really need to go to bed," she said.

"Okay," he said. "Can I call you again?"

"Okay," she said.

####

He started calling her—almost every night.

He told her about life in prison.

"Turns out, I can eat 50 eggs" he said.

"What?" Cuddy replied.

"You've never seen Cool Hand Luke?" he said. "Really Cuddy?"

He told her about his new team—he described Park as Pee Wee Herman meets Margaret Cho and Adams as the She-Chase.

He didn't mention the fact that Dominika had moved in—or the fact that she was currently sleeping in the next room—but he told her everything else.

Eventually, they finished catching each other up and just started talking about their lives, about her colleagues in the new hospital—the chairman of the board was having a rather scandalous affair with the head of human resources—or something Cuddy had read that day on the web, or about Wilson's love life, or House's theory on the scam of the artisinal food movement.

And they laughed and they flirted and Cuddy found herself looking forward to the phone calls more than she cared to admit.

About two weeks after the phone calls started, Lloyd called her.

"I have two tickets for Simone Dinnerstein at the Kennedy Center Friday night," he said. "Interested?"

She loved Simone Dinnerstein.

"I'd love to," she said. "But I already have plans."

#####

They made a pact not to tell anyone about their conversations—although Cuddy did encourage House to discuss them in his sessions with Dr. Ratner— but people in the hospital noticed the curious paradox: House had just come off a suicide attempt and yet his mood seemed brighter than ever.

"What's up with you?" Wilson asked. "Only two things can make you this happy: Methadone or Cuddy."

"Maybe Ratner is just that good," House said.

"Not buying it," said Wilson.

"Well, I'm not on methadone," House said.

Wilson looked startled.

"You're talking to her?"

"That would explain my good mood," House said.

"Has she. . .forgiven you?"

"I never confirmed I was talking to her, Wilson. I just said it would explain my good mood."

Wilson squinted at him.

"Be careful, House. I don't want you—either of you, for that matter—to get hurt."

"Yes, sensei," House said. And bowed.

It was Ratner who told them they should talk about the accident. Address it head-on. Which let to their first fight. Or more accurately, Cuddy berating House and House sitting back and taking it.

"It was the most selfish, destructive, imbecilic thing you could've done!" she screamed.

"I know," he said.

"You could've killed people!"

"I know."

"After three months of hostility, we were just beginning to find each other again. You ruined everything!"

"I know," he said, chastened. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sick of all your God damned apologies," she said.

"I know. I'm s—"

He stopped himself.

"Let's just call it a night, okay?" she said wearily. "There's no point in hashing this out again."

"Okay," he said. "Goodnight."

And they hung up.

######

She was afraid that he wouldn't call her the next day. But he did. And they didn't mention the fight. Instead, they had a lively conversation about the curious concept of "sexy ugly"—and then they went on to together and tried to find examples of the phenomenon. (He chose Tilda Swinton. She chose Alan Rickman.)

Everything was fine between them, until about a week later, when Cuddy asked House if he was doing anything to wean himself off the vicodin.

"Why should I?" he said.

"Because you're an addict House. Because less than a month ago, you tried to kill yourself."

"But I need the pills to function."

"You didn't need the pills when we were together."

"That was different."

"Why?"

"Because I was. . . happy then."

It was the same old guilt trip. Played out two years later.

"Why do you do this?" she said. "Why do you put so much pressure on me? Why do you act like I'm the only formula to your happiness?"

"Because you are," he muttered.

"That's bullshit. I need you to start taking care of yourself, House. For you, not me. Because no one will ever love you if you don't love yourself."

"Christ, where did you read that? On a cereal box?"

"Just because it's a platitude, doesn't make it any less true."

"I'm sorry if my depression is so inconvenient for you," he said.

"Fuck you," she said.

"Fuck you right back," he said. "When are you ever going to acknowledge your role in what happened?"

"My role?"

"Yeah. You led me on: Told me you didn't want me to change. You forgot to add the part where you say, 'Except I'll run at the first sign of trouble.'"

"We've been through this," she said, impatiently. "I never meant to lead you on. I thought I could do it, I couldn't."

"Well, you left behind a big fucking mess. So own up to it."

"I know," she said. "And I apologized to you. And you accepted my apology. And eight hours later, you were driving a car through my dining room."

"Maybe I wouldn't have driven my car through your dining room if you'd hadn't immediately gone running to Skippy."

"Yes, House. Because I broke up with you and dared to have dinner with a new male friend, I deserved to have my life put in jeopardy."

"I didn't say that. . ."

"What are you saying?"

"I don't know what I'm saying. I just know that I'm angry, okay?"

"Well, that makes two of us."

And they hung up.

####

That night, at 3 am, Cuddy's phone rang. She looked at the number—as if there was any doubt—and picked up.

"I can't sleep," he said.

"Me neither."

"I don't want to fight anymore. It's all my fault. All of it."

"No it isn't. I've done a lot of soul-searching these past two years. I handled things horribly. You're right. I did the classic female thing: 'I love you, you're perfect. Now change.'"

"That's no excuse for what I did," House said. "You didn't deserve that. Nobody does."

"You're right," she said. "But I've forgiven you anyway. Maybe I shouldn't, but I can't help it."

"Good," he said. "But just for the record: I'll never be able to forgive myself."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

"Are you watching this ridiculous infomercial?" Cuddy said finally, trying to lighten the mood.

"With the guy with the spray on hair? Yes!"

"Does he actually think that looks . . .good?"

"It's awesome. If you're going for the psychopath-who-lives-in-his-mother's-basement look."

"I understand a lot of women find that very attractive."

"It always worked for me."

"I wonder if it comes in different colors," Cuddy said. "Not everyone can pull off that jet black look, you know."

"Oh my God, is he spraying it on his chest now?" House said.

They laughed and House continued to give a running commentary on the infomercial until Cuddy was quiet for a while and he realized she had fallen asleep. Without hanging up, he put the phone next to him on the pillow, listening to her breath, and went to sleep, too.

#####

He kept asking if he could drive out to see her and she kept saying no.

Finally, he said, "What about videophone? So at least I can at see your face when we talk?"

Reluctantly, she agreed.

The next night, he put on a fresh shirt, combed his hair a bit, and called her on the videophone.

"Can you see me?" she asked.

And there she was. Blinking at the camera, trying to get in the best position to see and be seen: The most beautiful creature in the world.

"Wow. It's so good to see your face," he said.

"I'm just lucky this thing isn't in HD," she demurred.

"You're perfect," he said. It had just slipped out.

She blushed.

She was dressed casually—in a sweatshirt and jeans. But the sweatshirt was slightly oversized and it fell off her shoulder just the tiniest bit. He tried not to fixate on her bare shoulder.

He couldn't wait to see her smile. He loved the way her eyes laughed when she smiled.

#####

One night, after a particularly satisfying conversation with Cuddy, Dominika knocked on his bedroom door and stepped into the room.

"What is the name of mystery woman who makes you so happy, Mister Doctor House?"

House closed his laptop hastily.

"No one," he said.

"You have new girlfriend? I, for one, think you are a man in love."

"None of your business," he said. "And don't ever come in when I'm on the phone with her, get it? Never."

"Why so grumpy all of a sudden?" she asked. "Is it because mystery woman is there and you are here?"

"Just. . .nevermind," he said. "And remember. Don't even think about coming in my room when I'm talking to her."

#####

She usually spoke to House from her home office. But for the first time since they'd begun video conferencing, Cuddy was in her bedroom, propped up against a pillow. Wearing a somewhat skimpy lace nightgown.

"House, stop staring at my cleavage," she scolded.

Busted.

"I'm sorry. I . . ."

"Let me get a robe," she said. "I'm distracting you."

"Nooooo!" he said. "Don't. You look good."

"Thanks," she said.

But he kept staring at her.

"I miss your body," he said softly.

"I see where you're going with this," she said. "I'm getting my robe. BRB."

She left the bed for a second and, when she came back, she was wearing a silk robe that tied around the waist.

He shook his head, and smiled in resignation.

"You ruin all of my fun," he said.

"Sorry, Romeo."

But the next day, she was back in the nightie—no robe—and she was obviously doing it to drive him crazy.

"Where's your robe?" he asked knowingly.

"It's hot," she said.

"I see," he said.

Now he was staring at her, brazenly.

She looked down.

"What? No witty repartee tonight?" she said.

He kept staring. His lips parted a bit.

"Just. . .touch yourself, Cuddy. Please."

"House. . ."

But she felt aroused. Why the hell else had she worn the nightie? Brought the laptop to the bedroom?

"Just over the nightie," he breathed. "Just touch your breast."

She looked at him. His own obvious arousal stoked hers.

She closed her eyes. Touched her breast.

"Circle it with your hand," he said.

She still hadn't lifted the nightie. But she slowly moved her hand over breast. Her nipple hardened.

"Fuck," House said.

"That's all," Cuddy said. "I shouldn't have even done that."

"No," he said. "Lift the nightie. Please."

"No, House. It's. . .late. We'll talk tomorrow okay?"

"Okay," he said, dejectedly.

The next night, she was back in her sweatshirt. And sitting in her office, not the bedroom.

He took the hint and didn't try anything. They talked about a new pizza stone she had bought.

The following night, however, she had returned to the bedroom. Mixed messages, though: She was still wearing her sweatshirt.

They talked for a while, about a case that had eluded all the brightest minds at Washington International: Without even looking at the scans, he was easily able to diagnose it as Wilson's Disease.

"Of course," she said. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"As my reward, take off that sweatshirt," he demanded.

She looked at him.

"Not going to happen, House.

"Yes. It is."

"I can't," she whispered. "Rachel's in the next room."

The fact that Rachel being in the next room was her primary deterrent filled House with incalculable joy.

"We used to have sex all the time with Rachel in the next room," he said.

"This is different."

"Why?"

"Because. . . you're not my boyfriend anymore."

"Please Cuddy. Don't make a grown man beg."

She considered the video camera for a long time. Then glanced nervously at the bedroom door to make sure Rachel wasn't awake. Then she slowly took off her sweatshirt. She arched her back a bit, so he could see her in all her glory. It was the sexiest thing House had ever laid eyes on. She wasn't wearing a bra.

He went to touch himself. Then thought that might be pushing his luck.

"Woman, you're going to be the death of me," he said.

She put her nightie back on and didn't reply.

######

A few nights later, Dominika, who had gotten a job as a hostess at a place called the Kiev Palace, came home from work.

The apartment was quiet and she wasn't sure if House was home or not.

He often had insomnia, and she was bored—thought maybe they could play cards or something—so she hoped for the best.

She knocked on the door to his bedroom. When he didn't answer, she stepped in.

There, she saw two figures undulating under the covers, and heard moaning.

"Oh my goodness. Dominika is so sorry," she said, backing up.

House stopped. He glared at her accusingly.

"Get out!" he screamed.

A woman poked her head out from under the covers. Her hair was messy and her cheeks were red and she was slightly out of breath.

Dr. Lisa Cuddy.