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: apologies for the long wait... all reviews/ responses are appreciated (no matter how long it takes me to respond to them ;) enjoy.

And she waves,
thinking that it's sexy
She must be plum crazy

It's late.

The case of his latest patient was solved hours ago but in spite of that, House can't seem to bring himself to leave his office. Not yet, anyway. His desk is currently home to the contents of the wastebasket from her office and House admonishes himself for about the hundredth time for missing what's been staring him right in the face: symptoms; missing pieces to the puzzle; clues... He sets the tennis ball off to the side with sigh. Regardless of the euphemism, they all point to the same thing: Cuddy's possible - or, to be more accurate, highly likely - pregnancy.

He notices but doesn't fully acknowledge Wilson's presence in the doorway of his office. "Haven't really seen you much lately."

"Had a patient to cure. …I get paid for that, you know."

Wilson nods, moving to stand in front of his desk, his hands on his hips. "Yes, I know. It's just that you hardly ever voluntarily spend your nights at the hospital simply because you have a patient - especially when your team could easily reach you at home if need be."

"What, did you miss me?" House snarks.

"No," Wilson retorts quickly. "I just-" He stops his sentence short, and gestures to the pile of garbage covering his desk's surface. "Distraction from a distraction?" he asks and House almost rolls his eyes at the knowing tone in Wilson's voice. "Since Lou the janitor hasn't been lurking around my office lately I'm going to assume that this is…Cuddy's?"

"Yep."

"And do I want to know the reason why you're sifting through her garbage?"

"It's probably better if you don't."

"Does this have anything to do with the Western style showdown between you and Cuddy's boyfriend at the hospital fundraiser?"

"A 'showdown' implies that there's an equal distribution of power between opponents. Not so in this case."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Right; you're a stud, I get it," he mutters sarcastically. "Have you talked to her since then?"

"Not exactly," he admits, almost sheepishly.

"What does 'not exactly' mean?" Wilson demands, eyes narrowed, hands right back on his hips.

"It means we didn't do a lot of talking, when I found her trying to pull a Houdini over the balcony."

"What?"

"Can you blame her? That architect guy is an ass."

"He…seemed like a nice guy. Maybe a little defensive but then again it was you he was talking to so I don't exactly blame him."

"Anyone can seem nice before you actually get to know them." House picks up several paper cups that seemed to have contained tea. A sniff confirms that it's chamomile. "Would you be able to get through eighty hour work weeks on chamomile tea?"

Wilson pauses as he considers the question. "Is coffee not an option?"

"Let's say no."

"I - probably not." Wilson frowns. "How is this relevant to anything?"

House uses his cane to sweep the garbage, minus the paper cups, off his desk and into the trashcan. "It's evidence."

"Of what?"

"Well, what fun would it be if I told you?"

"You're late. Rough morning?"

His voice startles her as it cuts through the silence of her office, interrupting her whirlwind of thoughts and simultaneously stopping her in her steps, mid-stride, as she walks toward her desk. A tiny gasp ekes out from between her lips, as her hand automatically flies over her chest. Though she knows it's a bit over dramatic, she's almost convinced that her heart stops.

"And you're early—well early for you, anyway," Cuddy amends once she glances at the clock.

She should have expected this. The fact that she didn't expect this means that she is a lot more distracted and bothered by his presence than she originally thought she would be. "Why do I even bother locking the door?" she mutters to herself, shaking her head as she sets her briefcase and cup of herbal tea on the edge of her desk. She moves to stand behind it, diving immediately into paperwork, a preemptive move on her part to avoid any discussion of what happened between them at the hospital fundraiser two nights ago. Futile, she knows, but damn if she doesn't try.

"You know, I was wondering the same thing. It would certainly save me the trouble of having to break in and ruining Chase's credit card in the process."

It takes a little effort, but Cuddy chooses to ignore that tidbit of information to move the conversation along. "What do you want, House?"

"…Brought you something."

She doesn't look up from the paperwork she's filling out until he tosses a paper bag, heavy with the weight of some unidentifiable object, on top of her desk. Cuddy eyes it warily, setting her pen aside and resting her chin in the palm of her hand. She doesn't move to open it. "What is this?"

"Breakfast burrito."

She unfurls the top of the bag and rolls her eyes when she sees 'Property of P.P.T.H.' written in bold on top of a small, rectangular box. She sets the bag off to the side and leans back in her chair, staring at him. "You stole this from the clinic," she observes flatly.

"It's fine; you can just reimburse me." Off her glare he adds, somewhat uncertainly, "Fine. Take the two dollars out of my paycheck, then."

"It actually costs three seventy-five, House, and I really don't have time for—"

"You don't have three minutes?"

"House, why are you pushing this? I would think that you of all people wouldn't exactly be eager to know—"

"And I would think you of all people would have booked an appointment with an OB the second you realized Aunt Flo had missed not one, but two visits." He looks at her pointedly, and her cheeks flush a distinct shade of scarlet.

"How do you—" She shakes her head. "Never mind, I don't even want to know."

"Evidently," he retorts. She gives him a look that is clearly agitated, waiting for him to expand his answer. "I've been thinking about your sudden need to not know. And I'm admittedly curious as to why. You're a control freak and you actively choosing not to be in control goes against your nature. I'm intrigued."

"Of course," she sighs. "It's always about the puzzle."

"Also," he continues, "I know it's been awhile since you've had a lesson in the meaning of all of the bases but getting to third doesn't count as scoring which means if you are pregnant—"

"Keep your voice down—" she hisses. She looks quickly over his shoulder, as if she's worried someone could hear him through the solid walls and closed doors of her office.

"Then you're roughly about halfway through the first trimester. You're also cranky," he observes. How astute, Cuddy thinks snidely. "Though it's a bit early for mood swings, don't you think?"

"Not a mood swing," she snaps. "This is me being annoyed. There's this giant, obnoxious gnat that just won't go away—"

"So, we're trying out pet names today? My vote's for 'pookie'."

"House."

He suddenly leans in towards her deliberately close, taking not of the way she frowns almost instantaneously. "What is that smell?"

"It's called cologne. I know you're probably used to the foul odor of Victor's B.O.—"

She rolls her eyes, ignoring the dig. "What, did you bathe in it?"

"Just a few dabs."

"House, you don't wear cologne," Cuddy points out, suspicious. "Why would you—"

"You have a hyperactive sense of smell. Needed to actually activate it to help prove my point."

"Don't push this. I just - I can't right now."

He doesn't respond to her statement, nor to her admittance of avoidance. He does, however, leave the bag and the pilfered test on her desk, turning around and walking out of her office without a word.

She and Vincent haven't stopped arguing in the days following the hospital fundraiser. He's asking questions at every turn - some of which she doesn't have the answers to, and others Cuddy simply doesn't want to give - wanting to know everything there is to know regarding her relationship with House. She tells him the basics, leaving out the obvious connection they presently share: they met in college when she was an undergrad and he was a med student, and slept together once; they lost touch, she hired him as head of diagnostics years later on the heels of his infarction, because he was good.

"In bed?" Vincents snarks.

"Stop," she demands, shooting him a glare.

"Sorry. I just find it kind of funny that now you're telling me you have a history with this guy - which I wouldn't have a problem with if he wasn't practically marking his territory the other night like a German Shepard. He might as well have peed in a circle around you, for God's sake."

"Need I remind you that you weren't exactly Mr. Subtlety, either."

She's making a pot of coffee and adamantly trying to ignore the nausea roiling in her stomach at the scent of the beverage - hence, the reason why she's forgone these past few weeks - and stubbornly hoping that this isn't another warning sign (symptom) pointing towards the most obvious answer. "I just—"

Cuddy takes a sip of coffee and doesn't even manage to swallow it down before she's rushing towards the bathroom her hand clasped over her mouth.

He hears her before he sees her, and mentally adds another symptom to the list. He leans against the doorway of her bathroom. It's almost mildly impressive the way she manages to hold her hair back with one hand and hold onto to the edge of the porcelain with the other. It takes her a few minutes to pull her face out of the toilet and as she leans against the bathtub, resting the her head against its edge, she doesn't seem all that surprised to see him here. "Puking. In the morning. That's got to be indicative of something, right?"

She scowls. "Shut up," she murmurs weakly. "What are you doing here?"

"My usually perfunctory boss didn't come in to work this morning—"

"It's Saturday."

"According to the nurses you at least come in for a couple of hours. Word of your absence sparked my interest."

"Since when do you voluntarily talk to the nurses?"

"There is at least one who doesn't know of my reputation. Can't remember her name though. She's blonde, perky-"

"Of course she is," Cuddy mutters before coming to a realization. "How did you get in here?"

"You should really move your spare key to a new spot. Flower pot's too obvious. Although, interestingly enough, the front door was already unlocked."

She doesn't respond to that. Yes, she knew he would try to show up, but to say that she actually wants him here? That would be opening herself up to all kinds of questions that she isn't exactly ready for. House reaches above her head to open a one of her cabinets and grabs a washcloth. She watches in silence; partly in confusion as to what, exactly, he's doing, partly in amazement at his audacity. Although, honestly, she shouldn't be surprised.

He hands her a damp washcloth and she is too surprised to even say thank you. He gives her a knowing look. "Where's the boy-toy? Shouldn't he be cleaning up your puke?"

Cuddy looks away from him before reluctantly admitting, "I… told him I must have caught the flu from working in the clinic and I didn't want him to get sick, so I told him to go home."

He smirks. "And he believed you?"

"I could be sick," she mumbles feebly.

"Right. With a parasite that will persist for roughly the next seven months."

She pulls herself to her feet and grabs a cup she keeps near the edge of the sink to fill it with water. "You don't know-"

"Cuddy." He is quickly losing his patience with her staunch persistence to stay in a permanent state of denial and his tone conveys it clearly. She takes a sip of water while House leans against the counter for balance, his jaw clenched and ticking in annoyance as he watches her. The silence that falls between them is tense and uncomfortable. "What is that you're so afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid, House," she scoffs.

"Look at it this way, the sooner you find out the sooner you can decide what to do about the problem."

"Is that what you think I want?" She turns around to face him abruptly, eyebrows furrowed.

"What the hell else am I supposed to think?"

"That's… not what I want. And believe it or not, it's not about you. Or Vincent, even." She sucks in a breath, looking down at her hands. "I know it isn't logical…but I just feel like if I don't know for sure then I can't get… attached to anything."

"So you put off facing the inevitable in the hopes that you just won't have to deal with it even thought the act of putting it off has no effect whatsoever on the outcome? You're right. That isn't logical." She sighs, he continues. "But it's …understandable. Somewhat."

"Give me a minute." She closes the bathroom door, and out in the hallway House begins to consider her question, a mild panic setting in. What is he doing? He needs to know, that much is sure, and though he has a hunch that is ninety-nine percent accurate, ninety-nine percent is not one-hundred. He looks toward Cuddy's front door for a quick moment before the bathroom door opens.

House pushes it open the rest of the way with his cane. Cuddy's standing in front of the sink, the test in her hands.

"Ready?"

"Not yet." Cuddy bites her lip, shaking her head, face scrunched in confusion. "Why are you doing this? Being here and putting up with-"

"Your brand of crazy?"

"I wasn't going to say that, exactly… but yeah, I guess."

"Do you really need me to answer that, Cuddy?"

"I… It should be ready by now."

Cuddy turns the test over and House is sure, before she even says a word, of what it says by the expression on her face. "Well?" he demands, his need to know overriding his momentary lapse into the realms of sensitivity. House is certain he already knows the answer, but he needs confirmation. He needs an answer.

She tugs nervously on her bottom lip with her teeth. "…positive."