Edge of Chaos Chapter 10, a house, m.d. fanfic

Author's Notes: Thank you very much to DoctorLisaCuddy, Queen S of Randomness 016, passionfornight, i luv ewansmile, and lhoma320 for the awesome reviews. I really cannot say how much I appreciate the encouragement. Also thanks to my beta for her help.

Disclaimer: Just because I wished I owned it doesn't mean I do. Don't sue.

Edge of Chaos
Chapter Ten: Shifting Shadows
By Duckie Nicks

"Climate change is any long-term significant change in the expected patterns of average weather of a specific region over an appropriately significant period of time." – "Climate Change," Wikipedia

He was currently sprawled out on the couch, his belly comfortably full with dinner and body warm from the golden blanket draped over him. His feet were stretched out on Cuddy's lap, despite her protestations, her inability to resist the guilt trip he'd placed on her ("But my leg hurts") winning in the end. His face half-buried in a pillow, House was teetering on the edge of sleep. The tinnitus, the result of the antidepressant, his head injury, or both, had receded to a dull roar earlier in the evening, and now, the noise was not entirely intrusive. And it did not go unnoticed by him that this was the most content he'd been since the accident.

Hell, he was willing to go further than that and say that this was the most content he'd been in a long time.

Of course… a lot of that probably had to do with the extra painkillers she'd given him. They'd been sitting on the couch, and House's main intention had been annoy the crap out of her. Because as used to her as he was becoming, he understood that part of him would never grow tired of irritating her (it was way too fun). But his whining had had another purpose: to get her ass off the sofa so he could stretch out.

It hadn't really been about his leg; he'd been in pain, yes, but it hadn't been all that horrible. On a scale of one to ten, his pain had been, at most, a five, which was pretty average for him. But Cuddy had given him the drugs anyway and eventually let him stretch out, because, in her own words, "Your whining is giving me a migraine, and I need to finish looking over these budget reports."

At the time, he'd said that bribery was beneath her, had said it, naturally, after she'd handed him the pill. And even if he did believe that to be true, right now, House was too content to care. Or maybe he should say that he was too stoned to care. Because although he could have handled the drugs in his system under normal circumstances, Cuddy's rigid and complex drug schedule had made him less able to do that.

His head trauma probably – okay, definitely – didn't help matters, he thought, burying his smirking face into the pillow underneath his head. In all likelihood, if he were alone, House realized he probably would have giggled – actually giggled – at that particular thought. Which must have meant that he really was high out of his mind, if the idea that brain damage, specifically his own potential brain damage, seemed more amusing than anything else.

Ill at ease with the possibility that he was going to start laughing, House turned his head lazily in Cuddy's direction. She was glancing down at a file resting precariously on the sofa arm. One of her arms was propping up her head, the other stuffed between the couch cushions and her back. And although it was hard to tell exactly what she was doing, he thought he could make out her hand trying to rub circles along the muscles that had clearly been bothering her for, by his estimations, at least a week.

Which was probably, if he had to guess, the result of sleeping in a hospital recliner and now his chaise for weeks.

Not that he had any intention of vocalizing his theories to her, he told himself. Because, although he could use her obviously aching back to try and shove her out the door, he also realized that doing so would mean that… it would at least seem that he cared about her wellbeing. And granted, maybe he did care about her in that way; at the moment, she was the closest thing she had to a best friend, he realized, but…

He wasn't going to say any of that out loud.

On the other hand, he didn't have any problem pleasantly announcing to her at that moment, "I am really high."

"I can tell," she replied dryly, still gazing at the file of information in front of her.

"No, you can't," he said quickly, sounding petulant and childish even to his own hazy mind.

Glancing over at him, Cuddy rolled her eyes. "You just said, 'I am really high.' That means you're wasted."

"And whose fault is that?"

She waved him off. "I was tired of listening to you whine."

Which would make sense, House thought, if she hadn't had years upon years of experience listening to him whine, making her tolerance for it exceptionally high. And considering she had chosen to be here, he was sure that she'd prepared herself for him to be an especially giant dick. And since he hadn't been extremely annoying as of late (no more so than usual, anyway), he couldn't help but think that she was either lying or something else was going on. "That's interesting," he spoke aloud without entirely meaning to.

She shook her head. "It's really not. I can assure you."

Her denial fell on deaf ears, as he had already seized hold of the puzzle in front of him. And it didn't matter what she said, what she tried to convince him of; he'd been awoken by what was in front of him, and he wouldn't be able to rest now until he had an answer to one question: what was bothering Cuddy?

"What day is it," he asked suddenly, trying to push past his haze in order to count.

"If that's your not so subtle way of suggesting that I have my period –"

"It is."

Angrily Cuddy sighed, her body exhaling air in a loud huff. "I'm pretty sure it's possible for me to be annoyed by you without having hormonal issues."

"'Possible'? Or what's actually going on?"

Pushing her work to the side for the moment, she turned to him. As she placed a warm hand on one of his ankles, she informed him, "I don't have my period, House." The words came out in such a way that made it absolutely clear that she was telling the truth while also making her disbelief that she was actually confessing such a thing to him obvious as well.

"Okay. Then –"

"I'm just tired," she interrupted dismissively. "You keep me up when you can't sleep, and that would be fine, if I didn't still have to do things around here and for the hospital." Gesturing to her back, she dryly added as an afterthought, "Or if I hadn't been sleeping on a chair for the last month."

"So this is my fault," House deduced.

She shook her head in a manner so vigorous that his own started pounding in sympathy. "No," she replied emphatically. "I don't blame you… I'm not mad. Like I said – I'm tired. And I… selfishly gave you the pills to shut you up, because I thought that would be easier than fighting you and telling you to wait until you could take a pill."

Cuddy laughed humorlessly then, laughed in the kind of way someone only did when they were absolutely exhausted. "And it worked. You were quiet for two hours, and I was able to do work."

He closed his eyes then, her words trickling past the clouds of his drug-induced haze not unlike the first few drops of a light summer rain.

… Yeah, he was definitely high if he were making that metaphor – no, simile… whatever it was.

Eventually he asked, "So when you finally decide to smother me with a pillow in the middle of the night, you'll let me know, right?"

Her brow furrowing in confusion, Cuddy asked, "Excuse me?"

"You sound like one of those mothers right before she decides to off her kid," he explained. "And I'm just sayin' – let me know before you slip the arsenic in my food."

The hand resting on his ankle squeezed reassuringly. "I have no plans to kill you. I've put way too much time and energy into making you healthy to turn around and kill you," she told him dryly.

"That's what they all say before, you know, they do it," he replied grimly.

And even though the conversation ended there, hours later, Cuddy was still reliving it in her mind. His words had been so dark, the implication behind them so horrible, that she couldn't help but wonder just how much he believed them to be true.

To be sure, she wouldn't ever do what he was saying she would do. As annoying as he was, as tired as she was, Cuddy knew that she would never murder him. Yell at him, switch some of his drugs to laxatives, yes, but actually hurting him? No, she told herself, shaking her head in disgust at the thought.

Of course, no amount of denial would make him believe otherwise; she knew that much as well. Because whatever ideas about friendship he had, Cuddy had no doubt that losing Wilson, or at least thinking he'd lost Wilson, had ruined those beliefs. So she'd let House think whatever he'd wanted to think, allowing him to go to bed with that thought in his mind.

But now, that seemed like an admittance on her part, and it hadn't been; it wasn't.

Shaking her head, Cuddy rolled over to look at the empty couch. There wasn't anything she could do about that now, she told herself, knowing that House was in the bedroom fast asleep while she was out here on his chaise wide awake.

A pinching feeling attacking her lower back, she rolled over once more. All of the nights she'd spent without a bed were quickly catching up to her. She'd been trying to ignore the pain for almost a week, but now she couldn't convince herself that it was just a passing ache, that it was something that would disappear on its own. And although she'd been digging into her secret stash of Aspirin since it had started, Cuddy understood that the pain wouldn't be going away until she had a proper night's rest.

But at the moment, it seemed like the one thing she couldn't have was a night in any bed, much less her own. Because she couldn't go home, leaving House and kicking Wilson out unacceptable consequences of that, and she certainly couldn't kick House out of his own bed. Truthfully, even if she wanted to make him spend the night on the couch, it wouldn't be worth it. By the time she finished fighting with him for the bed, the street would be too noisy for him to sleep. Which would mean that he would keep her awake, even if she did have the bed.

A pout on her face, Cuddy shifted some more on the chair at the thought. Her hands balling themselves into fists, she half-heartedly punched the chaise beneath her. God, it seemed like this stupid thing was against her, which was, admittedly, insane to think. But given that it had to be approaching one in the morning, given that she hadn't fallen asleep yet, she couldn't help but think it. And it was certainly better to contemplate that than the fact that she had no chance of getting a good night's rest.

It was definitely better than considering the niggling idea in the back of her mind anyway; a thought so stupid she didn't even want to let it push its way to the forefront of her mind, it was only because of her exhaustion that she mulled over the idea of sneaking into the bedroom and sleeping in House's bed right next to him.

If she were in her right mind, she knew she'd be focusing on all the ways that would go wrong. She'd be thinking of how she could wake him up and start a fight with him or how he would wake up and then not be able to go back to bed, resulting in a sleepless night for her anyway.

Or she'd be considering how getting into bed with him was a dangerous prospect, the possibility of them having sex something she wouldn't have been able to ignore. Because although Cuddy had no intention of ever sleeping with him [again], were she in her right mind, she would have understood how easy it would have been for them to do it. He had a head injury that predisposed him to disinhibition (as though he needed a reason to throw caution to the wind), and she was so exhausted that she felt drunk. And the combination of the two could quickly lead to something bad; especially if he reacted to her climbing in bed with him by trying to freak her out by coming onto her, she knew they would do something stupid; he would hit on her, and she would let him do it to stay where she was, and one thing would lead to another…

And it would be bad.

It would end bad.

And part of her was still able to recognize that, despite her weary mind that was probably not entirely unlike House's with his head injury. But… instead of focusing on all of the ways crawling into bed with him could end in disaster, Cuddy was thinking of all the ways she could do it and get away with it.

Covering her face with her hands, she groaned quietly. House was the one with the traumatic brain injury, but she was the one, she scolded silently, who had clearly lost her mind. Because if she were here seriously thinking about how putting on socks would make her footsteps to the bedroom quieter, then she couldn't believe she had an ounce of sanity left inside of her body.

Thinking about it for a split second more, as her back twinged viciously, Cuddy made her decision. If she were crazy, then she might as well benefit from her insanity and give her back a break, she told herself. And if House had a problem with that, then he could be the one to spend the night on a couch that smelled like urine or an uncomfortable chaise.

Grabbing a pair of socks out of her overnight bag, she tiredly struggled to put them on her cold feet. Her fingers were fumbling to complete the normally easy task, her dark hair falling into her line of sight. But eventually, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she tried to concentrate, she mastered the apparently complicated art of getting dressed.

Cuddy carefully tiptoed towards the bedroom, trying very hard not to make noise. Which was also more difficult than it should have been, her legs unsteady from the need for slumber; honestly, she couldn't help but think that, if she were taking a sobriety test right now, she would fail. And whether it was sheer luck or not, she didn't know, but somehow she managed to avoid stumbling into the walls as she got closer and closer to the bedroom.

But her luck, what little she had, ran out the second she gingerly climbed into the open spot on the bed. Still on her knees and palms of her hands, she scowled as House, apparently awake, said, "This is interesting." It was dark in the room, but she didn't need any light to know that he was smirking.

Slumping down on the bed, she pouted. "I thought you were asleep."

House scoffed loudly as he rolled on his side to face her. "A desperate woman climbs into my bed, I know about it," he informed her proudly, assessing her defeated body that was lazily strewn out on top of the covers. "Of course, what you're desperate for, I don't know," he admitted after a second. "It's either sex or you really are planning on killing me."

Trying to push away the realization that she was going to be back on the chaise in no time, Cuddy took the opportunity to reiterate, "I'm not going to kill you, House."

"Oh goody. Then you've gone for the more painful option and decided to give my booty a call."

"No," she said immediately, her voice loud and mind in shock. "No, that's not why I'm here at all."

House sighed. "I'm listening."

Crawling up the bed, Cuddy laid her head down on the free pillow. Stretching her body out, she could already feel her back muscles relax a little; she could already tell that, if he let her stay in the bed tonight, she would feel so much better tomorrow. And she understood then how important it was for her to convince him that she should stay here. Taking a deep breath, she explained, "It's my back. I have spent… way too much time sleeping in chairs for the last month, and I can't do it anymore. I'm in pain, and I thought that I could, I don't know, sleep in here for one night and then be okay."

"Sleep on the couch," he suggested immediately.

She shook her head. "That sofa smells like pee."

"Didn't stop you from sitting on it earlier."

"Well, I wasn't sitting on the part that smelled like pee," she defended quickly. "But if I'm lying on the sofa, then there's no way to avoid the cushion you apparently urinated on when you were too drunk or lazy to get up and use the bathroom. Which means instead of sleeping, I'm wondering what the hell is wrong with you," she hissed angrily.

He sighed. "Always quick to assume it's me, aren't you?" His voice was filled with dismay. "Always quick to believe that I'm the one who peed on the metaphorical couch – or in this case the actual couch."

Scowling in the dark, Cuddy was trying to figure out his line of reasoning, was trying to understand what it was he was trying to tell her. But she could only think of one thing. "So, what, are you telling me you and a prostitute engaged in some… I don't know, water sports? As though that's supposed to make me feel any better?"

"No," he replied snottily. "If you must know, Wilson was the one who peed on the couch."

She sighed, knowing she would regret saying it. "Wilson's a bed wetter."

"Yup."

And when he didn't offer her any context, no I-stuck-his-hand-in-a-bowl-of-hot-water admittance, Cuddy realized: Wilson wet the bed.

On his own.

With no apparent help from House.

And since Wilson was currently in her own, probably sleeping in her bed…

"Oh. Well, that's just great," she said loudly, bitterly. "You couldn't have told me that before I decided to let him stay in my home?"

Through the darkness, Cuddy could see him shrug. "I didn't know he was staying there."

He didn't say anything after that, but then again, he didn't really need to. He was right, after all; he couldn't have possibly warned her about Wilson's… issue, considering House had had no idea that Wilson was staying with her. And honestly, she'd intended to keep it that way, until it seemed like a good time to tell House the truth anyway. And even to her own mind, right now hadn't been the right time to tell him.

But she had anyway, which made her feel like a complete idiot.

Wiping her face with the palm of her hand, Cuddy realized quickly that there was no taking it back. She couldn't pretend that she'd misspoken or that her confession was nothing more than sleep-induced nonsense. House would never believe that, would never settle for it, and on the off chance that he did accept it, he would distrust every other thing she ever said and dismiss it as her being tired.

She could just see it; he'd be demanding some awful, dangerous, irrelevant test for one of his patients, and she would say no, and he'd do it anyway, brushing her concerns off as nothing more than exhaustion. So really, the only choice she had was to accept her mistake and move on, never letting him know that she hadn't meant to tell him in that moment.

Carefully Cuddy asked, "Does that bother you?"

"Does what bother me?" He sounded irritable but no more so than usual.

She rolled her eyes as she clarified, "Are you bothered by the fact that Wilson's staying at my house?"

"Nope."

His one word answer was too brief to give her any insight into what he might be feeling. His tone perfectly controlled, it was hard to know whether he cared or didn't, and Cuddy knew better than to try and guess what he was feeling. Because if she guessed wrong, he would act as though she'd said something idiotic like "the earth is flat." And if she were wrong, he would act the same anyway, so it didn't really matter.

"Are you sure?" she asked delicately. "Because I can –"

House rolled away from her, muttering over his shoulder, "If you're going to stay here, then shut the hell up."

He sounded only the slightest bit annoyed, sounded like someone who really did just want to go back to bed and not like someone who was simply trying to brush her off. Which made her think that he didn't care about Wilson at all anymore, because if he had still cared, wouldn't he be badgering her for an explanation, for answers?

Shocked by this development, Cuddy could only reply stunned, "O-okay."

Slipping under the covers next to him, she glanced at him once more before falling asleep.

Without exaggeration, it was the greatest night of sleep she'd had in a month – easily. Because instead of being scrunched up into a chair, she could stretch out; instead of huddling into her own body for warmth, instead of clinging to a thin blanket for some heat, she had sheets and a comforter to do the job. And when she woke up, Cuddy couldn't help but feel completely, entirely, deliciously rested.

House, on the other hand… clearly did not feel the same way; the second she opened her eyes and glanced towards him, she could tell that he hadn't slept at all after she'd joined him.

He was sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard. His good leg was stretched out, lying on top of the bedspread while the other gangly limb was still tucked underneath the blankets. His hair was messy, messier than hers even, and his pajamas were rumpled in the way they became when you slept in them all night long.

But he obviously hadn't slept.

His eyes were open but unfocused behind heavy eyelids that refused to stay shut. He looked weary, exhausted in a way that seemed completely different than she had felt.

Sitting up, Cuddy asked, her voice groggy with sleep, "House?" He turned to look at her but said nothing. So she continued. "Are you okay? Are you – is it your leg?"

But still, he said nothing, simply shaking his head no.

"Did you sleep at all?"

Finally, he spoke, his voice deep and low, "No."

She let out the breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. Somehow simultaneously relieved that he was talking to her and worried about him, she thought that this was one of least enjoyable ways to wake up.

Frowning a little, Cuddy reminded him, "House, you know you can't do that. You need to rest." Reaching over she pulled the sheets out from under his bared leg and tucked him back in bed. The action almost second nature to her, she wondered when she'd gone from being a doctor to being House's mother.

She quickly pushed the thought to the side, refusing to consider it any further. "C'mon. Lie down. You need to sleep."

But he didn't move.

Instead, his gaze suddenly turned steely, and he asked, "Why did you tell me about Wilson?"

Surprised by the question, she asked, stunned, "What?"

So he repeated himself more loudly. "Why did you tell me that Wilson is at your place?" Not giving her a chance to respond, House continued, "Did you think that that was going to make me jealous? Did you think I was –"

"Of course not," she interrupted quickly. "It was a –"

"Then you thought, what? I would stay awake all night wondering why everyone suddenly decided to play musical beds and come to the conclusion that he's at your place, because he misses precious, dead Amber and wishes he were in my place and I were in her place?"

He was red in the face when he finished talking, his eyes dangerously bright. And as she slowly deciphered what it was that he was saying, she could see an almost painful amount of sadness in him. Because, parsing each of his words out, she came to understand that he had spent the night mulling over just how much Wilson hated him.

Placing a hand on his covered knee, Cuddy tried to reassure him, "I didn't tell you that he was staying at my house to make you do that. I wouldn't do that," she said, becoming slightly offended at the accusation. "It was a mistake… just like the one you made when you decided to get drunk and call Wilson's apartment."

He visibly flinched at the reminder of what had happened but said nothing. So she kept talking, "He needed some place to go, and he asked me for help." She shrugged, not really knowing how much more she could justify what she had done; he'd needed help, and as his friend, Cuddy had given it to him. And there really wasn't any more to say about it than that.

Steering the conversation deftly back to House, she told him, "He doesn't hate you. He just –"

House interrupted viciously, "He should hate me."

But no matter how vehemently the words had been spoken, she refused to believe that that was what he truly believed. Or that wasn't right, she mentally corrected immediately; she could actually believe at this point that House honestly thought that Wilson should hate him.

That his best friend's hatred was something he wanted – no, she would never be convinced of that. And that he was even trying to do that, that he even seemed beyond hope broke her heart, had her pulling him into a hug just as fierce as his words had been.

Her arms wrapping around him quickly, she could immediately feel how tense he was, almost as easily as she could feel his warm skin through the thin cotton of his t-shirt in fact. As she pulled him close, she wasn't surprised – not in the least – that he didn't hug her back. But his head did fall to her shoulder slowly, and although that probably had everything to with his complete lack of sleep, it was all the reason she needed to continue.

Quietly, Cuddy said, "He doesn't hate you, and I know you don't want him to, even if you think he should." Turning her head towards his neck, she advised him, "But if you don't want him to hate you, then you have to talk to him. I can't do it for you, and he's not going to. You have to be the one to do it."

He didn't say anything at first, which she initially took as a good a sign, because at least it meant that he was considering what she was saying. But as the seconds ticked by and he still didn't have any retort or come back, she wondered if he'd been listening at all. Because if he'd really been thinking about her advice, then House would surely have formed some sort of response by now.

"House?" she asked cautiously.

"Sorry," he told her immediately, clearing his throat. "It's just that right now I have a really great view of your rack, so I wasn't going to say anything."

Scowling Cuddy pulled away from him, defensively pulling the t-shirt she'd worn to bed up in the process. Which made him frown. "Well, now I can't see anything," he said sadly.

"Did you hear a word I said?"

He pretended to ponder. "Hmm… lets see. Boobs, words," he said slowly, using two hands to show that he were weighing his options. "Is that even a contest?"

Folding her arms across her chest, she explained irritably, "I'm not here to be your personal porn."

"Now that's a shame. Your ass would be perfect for the job." And though part of her understood that he was teasing, she couldn't entirely deny herself the pleasure of knowing that he was being earnest as well.

So she changed the subject. "You need sleep."

He smirked. "Show me some nip, and I will."

She was taken aback by the crassness of his words. "You're disgusting. And delusional if you think I'm going to flash you in order to get you to sleep. I mean, really, if those are your terms, stay awake for all I care."

With a mocking pout on his face, House asked her, "You're not concerned about my well being?"

"You're right," Cuddy answered, pretending to have had a realization. "I'll show you my breasts, and then, while you sleep, I'll go take your antibiotics. And in a few hours, we can have unprotected sex and have your medications administered that way."

"See, now we're on the same page."

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of this conversation. As she got out of bed, she ordered, "Go to sleep. Or don't. I don't care. But in the end, you're going to be the one who's miserable."

Leaving the room, she was more than grateful when she glanced behind her shoulder and saw that he was, thankfully, taking her advice; he was asleep before she even managed to close the bedroom door behind her.

When he woke up a few hours later, House was immediately taken aback by the smell filling his nostrils.

Food.

Although the idea of stabbing himself in the balls with a rusty fork seemed more appealing than saying it out loud to her, he couldn't deny to himself that Cuddy was a good cook. And he thought, as his stomach began to rumble loudly, that, as annoying as she was, she at least had her uses.

But as was her way, any good will he had toward her was promptly destroyed within minutes of being in the same room with her. Because the second he walked into the kitchen, Cuddy told him, "Your mother called." Which would have been fine on its own, he supposed, except she had to add, "You should call her back; she's worried about you."

Pulling one of the blackberries off of the spinach salad she was making, he popped it into his mouth. As he bit down on the fruit, he contemplated what she was saying. And then, realizing the implication of her words, he swallowed hard. "That makes it sound as though you were talking to her."

She was currently cutting up some steak to, apparently, put on top of the salad, but she paused at his words. And that did not go unnoticed by him, the subtle act of stopping letting him know that she had talked to his mother. "I was going to let your answering machine get it," Cuddy said quietly, cautiously. "But she sounded worried that she hadn't talked to you in a long time, and –"

His hands curled into fists at his sides. "A month hardly counts as a 'long time.' I know that since you have to call your Mommy every day, even while you're at work, it would seem like a long time, but –"

"I have told you a million times to stop breaking into my office," she reminded him in anger, the knife in her hands hacking viciously through the meat. "I understand that you think looking at my phone logs and my emails and my Internet searches is interesting, but it's not. So stop it," she ordered.

But instead of feeling properly admonished, he was furious. Antidepressants and their haze be damned, there was no other way to describe what he felt at that moment. Because the hypocrisy, her hypocrisy ate away at what little lock had been keeping some of his wilder emotions under wraps. And there was no amount of patience or pills in the world that could keep him from wrathfully wondering just why it was okay for her to invade his life anytime she wanted to.

Why could she do it and still get angry when he did the same thing to her?

Before he had a chance to ask her that, however, Cuddy told him, "And your mother was the one who said it had been a long time. Not me. So you can stop snapping at me and pick up the damn phone."

But House didn't do what she wanted, nor was he going to until he knew exactly what she had said. "What did you tell her?"

"I didn't tell her that you were in a bus accident, if that's what you mean."

A sound of frustration got caught in the back of his throat. "No, that's not what I mean. If that were what I meant, that's what I have asked. But since I asked – "

"When I picked up the phone," Cuddy interrupted, speaking so loudly over him that his head throbbed. "She thought that she had called the hospital by accident and that I was Dr. Cameron. And before I could correct her, she recognized the sound of my voice."

"And then what?" he asked in annoyance, trying to hurry the story along. "You two gabbed on the phone for hours, arguing who's the dreamiest American Idol contestant?"

Scowling she replied, "Don't be an idiot. She wanted to know why I was at your apartment."

"So then you explained to her that you were nagging and showing your boobs to me?"

"I'm not nagging you," she said defensively, her gaze narrowing on him. "And I didn't show you my breasts."

He smirked. "Well, I saw them."

"Congratulations" was her dry response. "But somehow I didn't think your mother would be too pleased to know she gave birth to a complete pervert." As she arranged the cool strips of steak onto the dark green bed of spinach, she told him, "I lied to her. I said something about papers and you hiding them here from me to waste my time, and she believed me."

House looked her over skeptically. "And that's it?"

"That's it," she replied with a shrug. "Now, are you going to call her back?"

He stepped closer to her, asking pointedly, "Are you going to insinuate yourself into every aspect of my personal life?"

It was immediately obvious that she didn't like how close he was. A fine blush covering her cheeks, Cuddy shifted a little on her feet. Her mouth opening and closing a few times, she eventually turned away from him. And when she spoke, her denial sounded weak to his ears. "That's not what I'm –"

"It is what you're doing. And while that seems like a whole lot of fun whenever I decide to spend time with a hooker, it seems a lot less interesting the rest of the time."

"That may be true. But you're wrong. I don't have any particular interest in your life," she said as she began to rummage through the cabinets for dishes.

"And yet you're here, talking to my mother, taking my calls, making me – "

"And maybe if you did those things yourself, I wouldn't have to," she suggested curtly. Her hands shaking a little, she dished up the salad onto plates and said, abruptly changing the subject, "Whatever. Lunch is ready."

But he made no move to grab the proffered plate of food. His appetite somehow lost in the middle of the argument, House had no desire to eat – especially not with the one person he wanted to kill at the moment.

Waving the salad in front of him mockingly, Cuddy told him, "Take it."

"No."

Which made her roll her eyes. "What – you're not going to eat now? Starve yourself in protest?"

He pretended to consider her question. "It does seem like the smart thing to do," he eventually replied, the tone of his voice cutting. "Definitely seems like a more efficient use of time than nagging and begging someone to do something, doesn't it?"

Looking at her carefully, House watched as his words sank into her abysmally small brain. As if somehow realizing that she had failed to get through to him, she began to frown, the faint smile lines on her face instantaneously becoming more pronounced. And in place of the anger she was so keenly radiating off only moments previously was a tangible sense of defeat. Which secretly pleased him.

Turning away from him, Cuddy silently placed both plates onto the kitchen counter. Shrugging she swallowed hard, and when she did speak, her voice was softer, rougher than he had ever recalled it being. "I don't know what you expect me to do, House." She took a deep breath and conceded, "I know that you want me to stay out of your life. But… I also know that part of you doesn't want to lose Wilson. Part of you does want me to interfere, I think, and if you –"

"Part of me would also like you to hang yourself so I won't have to deal with you ever again," he snarled, knowing the words were nothing short of spiteful. And worse, House thought, they weren't even true, for the most part, because he did, at times, appreciate her company, appreciate what she was doing.

But he'd said it; he'd told her that he wanted her dead, and there was no taking that back. Although it wasn't exactly like he really wanted to take it back; no apology within him dying to escape, he might not have meant to say it – he might have known that he shouldn't have said it. But he wasn't too upset about the sentiment.

If anything, he were willing to push it further, apparently, because when he spoke again, he asked her, "You gonna do that too?"

In all honesty, House expected her to respond with anger. In his mind, if he were picturing this conversation, she'd do everything short of beating the hell out of him. She would yell and screech like the harpy she could always so easily turn into. She would probably move easily back into awful bitch by denying him Vicodin or something else he wanted, and he would be miserable for a few days until he'd hit some arbitrary mark on the scale of misery. And then she'd cave and give him the drugs or his cable or heat back, and they'd move on as though he hadn't hurt her and she hadn't returned the favor; they would simply go back to the way things were, never once considering how horribly abusive they could be to one another.

It was what they knew, what they did, and there was nothing about his words now that should have made her react differently.

But she did nonetheless. Her eyes suddenly becoming very sad, she looked at him carefully for a moment, almost as though she were trying to assess whether or not he was telling the truth. And though his words had been a lie – or at least, had not been completely true – it didn't seem to matter to her; she didn't seem to recognize that fact.

As she turned and began to walk away from him, House knew down to the core of his being that she believed him.

He limped after her, not saying anything but curious to see what she was going to do nevertheless. And what she was going to do became immediately apparent, as she reached into the coat closet and grabbed her jacket. Jerkily pulling the wool coat on, Cuddy glared at him, finally saying, "I have spent a lot of my time taking care of you."

"I didn't ask you to," he defended immediately.

"No, you didn't." She nodded her head in agreement.

His next words were not meant to sound as accusatory as they did, but somehow he couldn't help it. "You volunteered."

Again, she agreed. "Yes, I did." Her lips pursing together for a split second, Cuddy explained to him, "And I was hoping that you would take that into consideration, that, despite all of your protestations, you could at least appreciate what I was giving up for you."

He kept his gaze on her, his eyes watching her intently as she angrily buttoned her coat and reached over towards the desk to grab her purse. Looking at him furiously, she accused, "But you don't appreciate it at all. You actually think it's a weakness to be kind to someone else. You don't respect what I'm doing for you. You actually resent it – and me."

She stalked towards the front door, apparently not giving him a chance to refute her words.

Not that he really could, he admitted to himself; Cuddy was right after all. As much as she might have hoped that he could appreciate all of her help, as much as he might have recognized that he should appreciate her help…

A very large part of him could not.

And that meant that she wasn't wrong about him. As screwed up as it was, as screwed up as he was, she wasn't wrong. And he didn't know how to deny something that she would so easily see through. So he simply asked, his voice perfectly modulated, "You're leaving?"

"Congratulations," she said, giving him a tight-lipped smile. "You're getting what you wanted."

But as she slammed the door shut behind her, House, now completely alone in his apartment, couldn't help but think that this wasn't what he wanted at all.

About a half hour later, as one door remained shut, another was being opened by Wilson, who had already twisted the handle before realizing that it wasn't exactly his place – literally – to greet anyone. But already halfway through the motion, he knew, even in his half-drunken mind, that he was committed to it; he couldn't really shut the door in the person's face. And as the metal hinges creaked from the motion, he scrambled quickly for an excuse, for a reason to explain to the stranger why he was staying at his boss's house. His mind already imagining the worst possible case scenario, he was more than a little relieved to see Cuddy standing on her own front porch.

But the sigh he exhaled almost immediately changed into a nervous chuckle. Because as the seconds ticked by, he was becoming increasingly aware of everything that was awkward and wrong with this picture. There was the fact, of course, that this was her house and that it was odd for her to knock, as though he had somehow earned privacy when he'd completely violated hers. Which was evidenced by the fact that he'd found her liquor cabinet and stolen the unopened Galliano her mother had sent her from Italy (as evidenced by the tiny card still attached to the neck of the bottle).

And that was another problem, because he'd already helped himself to a couple drinks this morning. The sweet anise taste still on the tip of his tongue, Wilson had no doubt that she would easily be able to smell it on his breath. Certainly she'd be able to see the telltale yellow stain on his green shirt from when he'd accidentally dribbled downs his chin.

But if she noticed, she didn't say anything right away. Instead she stood on her own front porch with a sympathetic smile on her face. "Can I come in?"

He shrugged, moving out of the way. "It's your house, Cuddy."

"I know," she conceded, stepping through the doorway. "But you're staying here, and I don't want to intrude if –"

As he closed the door, he interrupted, "You're not intruding."

The tone of his voice almost made his words seem like a confession, and it was clearly the beginning of one, because Wilson then added slowly, "Actually… I'm really glad you're here."

Immediately her face lit up, a grateful smile tugging on her lips. And just as quickly as her eyes brightened, she pulled him into a hug that he was all too eager to return in kind.

It was kind of pathetic, actually, the way he all too keenly wrapped his arms around her tiny waist. Especially since he'd received a damn litany of hugs at Amber's funeral, it seemed silly to want this physical contact now.

But there was no way to deny that he did.

Her chin resting on his shoulder, she confessed, "You have no idea how nice it is to have someone appreciate me."

And it was then that Wilson realized with horror that…

Cuddy wasn't here for him.

Oh, she was being nice enough, comforting enough, and somewhere inside of her self, she probably did worry about what he was going through.

But that wasn't why she was here.

Because her words said it all, and reading between her lines, he knew that this had nothing to do with him, his struggles.

This was all about House.

It had to be.

Pulling away, he said in a low voice, a disgusted voice, "So this is about him."

Thankfully she didn't deny it. Looking at him sadly, she explained, "He is…" Her voice trailed off as she tried to find the right words. She settled for "completely messed up."

And although Wilson wasn't going to refute that… well, it was a fact that House was a selfish, screwed up asshole. But at the same time, Wilson had no desire to talk about him any more than he had to. So he told her, "I don't care. I don't want to…" He paused, rubbing his chin with his hand.

He wasn't sure how to say what he wanted to say, but then she spoke, filling in the blank he didn't know how to fill, and for that he was almost immediately grateful. "No, you're right. Lets not talk about House."

She swallowed nervously and reached out for him. Wrapping her hand around the fleshy inside of his elbow, Cuddy began to lead him further into the home towards the living room. "How are you doing?" she asked sympathetically.

Shrugging he replied slowly, the words coming to him at a snail's pace, "I… don't know… how I should answer that. My girlfriend… is dead," he told her, his throat suddenly feeling tight and constricted. "My best friend is the one who put her on that bus."

Cuddy opened her mouth to speak, but Wilson cut her off by admitting loudly, "And if I had had any sense at all, I would have cut him off years ago."

Sliding her hand down his arm, she squeezed his hand reassuringly. "This isn't your fault, Wilson. You couldn't have known that –"

"That things would end this badly?" he questioningly finished. "Because I did… You know it too. You knew it when you lied in court for him," Wilson accused. "You said then that he brought out the worst in people."

She sighed, conceding, "And maybe he does do that. But… that's completely different than saying this tragic, unpredictable accident was something you, he, or anyone else could have predicted."

And though part of him could understand what she was saying, could see that what she was saying was rational…

He couldn't accept it as the truth.

And it wasn't as though he didn't want to; if there were one thing he did want to believe, it was that this – Amber's death – wasn't his fault.

But despite that desire, Wilson had come to accept that there was no convincing him that this wasn't preventable in some way. No matter how hard he tried to believe that she was… destined to die, he couldn't.

His guilt wouldn't let him.

"'Predicted,'" he repeated, trying the word on for size. "No. But… we all knew something like this would happen eventually. He nearly killed Stacy's husband to –"

She brushed off the accusation. "He nearly kills every patient."

He laughed loudly, mirthlessly at her response. Pulling away from her, he half-stumbled into the dining room, to the place where he'd left the open bottle of liquor. His back turned to her, Wilson didn't need to look at her to know that she was following him, staring at him.

That was to be expected, he supposed. Considering she hadn't come to the funeral, considering she'd been holing herself up with House for weeks now, it wasn't surprising that she was curious and unfamiliar with this change in Wilson. And somehow that only spurred him to be even more dramatic, to be even more of a train wreck than he already was.

Dramatically, he picked up the bottle. Before now he had maintained some semblance of humanity by drinking out of a glass. But the feel of her wide-eyed gaze on his back only egged him on, and so he practically chugged the sweet liqueur out of the bottle. Swallowing eagerly, he plopped the bottle loudly back down onto the table.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Wilson turned to her. He laughed some more. "Your argument is that, since he has no respect for human life, it's completely surprising that he would kill someone?"

She shook her head. "That's not what I –"

"That's exactly what you're saying," he countered, his words slightly more slurred than they had been when he first opened the door.

She frowned, shaking her head a little. "I know you're… furious with him, and I don't blame you," she said, trying to sound honest but not really succeeding; he knew when he was being placated. "But he's not a bad person."

"He lies, does whatever the hell he wants no matter how much it might hurt somebody else. He's an addict who thinks that everybody else should be at his beck and call, Cuddy, and you know I'm right," he pointed out.

Licking her lips, Cuddy exhaled loudly. "He's not perfect," she said, as though House were somehow just a tiny bit flawed. Grabbing the bottle once more, Wilson chugged a little more as she told him, "But he does care about you, and he wouldn't want –"

The liqueur burned his throat as he swallowed. Sputtering a little, Wilson countered. "Oh, he doesn't give a crap about me." Before she could protest, he held a hand up to stop her. "If he cared, he wouldn't be a coward. He would call and apologize. He would be doing something other than sitting in his little apartment feeling sorry for himself."

He went to take another swig from the bottle, but she reached out and pushed the lip of the Galliano away from his mouth. In reaction he glared at her, his angry eyes meeting her own disapproving ones. "He does care," Cuddy insisted. "I know that he does. I've –"

"He doesn't," Wilson gritted out.

Which made her angry, made her red in the face as she fought back, "You don't know that, Wilson. You've been here and at your apartment. I've been there; I've seen it – him. And he feels so guilty that he wants you to hate him, because he doesn't think he deserves your friendship."

At that moment, he could tell by the look in her eyes that she was clearly hoping he would be the mature one in the friendship, that he would bite the bullet and cave and say something like, "Poor House, I'll call him right away."

And Wilson couldn't deny that she had good reason to feel that way; since the beginning that had been his place in his friendship with House – to be the one who conceded everything, who asked for forgiveness every time, whether he'd done something wrong or not.

But not this time.

Not anymore.

Not ever again.

He just couldn't do it. "He doesn't deserve my friendship."

She looked at him carefully before shaking her head. "You don't mean that."

"I do," Wilson stressed. "He got the ball rolling; he was the one who got Amber killed."

But Cuddy wasn't willing to back off quite so easily. "He was also the person who risked his life to save her."

And truthfully that did not go unnoticed by Wilson.

Try as he might to ignore that fact, he couldn't deny that House had tried his hardest to save her. A cruel voice inside of Wilson, however, refused to feel sorry for the other man, whispered inside of him that, if House had done any good, it was to undo his mistake. "He was saving his own ass," he said, writing her point off easily. "That's the only way he works, Lisa," he stressed, hoping that she would wise up to his mistakes before she went ahead and repeated them. "He doesn't do good things, or at least he doesn't do them, because they're good. It's all about his self-interest."

He pointed a shaking finger at her. "You want to believe that he's all puppies and rainbows. But if that were true, he wouldn't only do good things when he screwed up. He wouldn't only do his clinic when you make him. He would not act like some little five-year-old who you have to bribe with candy to take to the dentist's!"

His voice was loud, demanding of attention. Which he clearly got, because once more, she returned to looking at him carefully, assessing him silently. Her eyes roaming over him, she was clearly looking for something. For what, he didn't know.

At first he thought he saw a glint of hope in her irises, a widening of understanding of some sorts. But if that were the case, Cuddy quickly recovered, her gaze easily changing back to something far sadder. And that made him think that she was searching for some sign that he didn't mean what he was saying. But he did; obviously he did, and within seconds, she frowned, knowing that he did as well.

And when she spoke, there was no hope or joy in her voice. "I…" She stopped talking, her lips parting and shutting as she visibly struggled to find the words she wanted. "This whole time, I knew you were in pain, knew you were suffering."

"No, really?" he mockingly asked, the words acrid to his tongue.

But she didn't respond with anger, continuing in a mournful tone, "You probably won't believe me when I tell you that I've been so worried about you. But I honestly, truly have," she stressed, her voice tight with emotion. "And all this time, all the days I've been with House, taking care of his injuries, a part of me as wondered… how you were doing."

Shaking her head, she paused, once more looking for the right words. And eventually, she shrugged her shoulders, telling him, "After our… fight in the hospital and your phone call, I knew that it would be bad. But…" She frowned sadly, tears in her eyes. "Drinking in the morning and afternoon? Responding to everything I say with the darkest, most sarcastic and judgmental words you can think of? Having no faith in your friends?"

Shame washed hotly through him, her words more damning than he wanted to admit. His ears burning, he reached out for the Galliano on the table and clutched to it like a lifeline. But he didn't drink from it, wouldn't do it in her presence anymore. Because if she were going to continue to judge him for it, then he couldn't bear to do it. Try as he might to shrug off his desperate desire to please everyone and everything, it wasn't an easy thing to do, wasn't something he could do in this situation.

He could not drink nor deny her words. Which meant that he had no choice but to stand there, taking the heat of her accusatory eyes, waiting for her to continue.

And when she did, Cuddy made sure to leave absolutely no pride, no self-confidence or sense of justification within him. Her voice cool, she pointed out, "For someone who hates House, you really are doing your absolute best to be him."

Clenching his jaw tightly, he gritted out, "Go to hell."

But she didn't seem to care about the anger he could feel bubbling to the surface. Instead, if anything, she kept pressing the matter. "Amber wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want you to self-destruct like…"

He didn't give her a chance to finish the sentence; hurling the half-empty bottle of Galliano past her head, he smirked as the glass slammed into the wall behind her and she gasped in shock, in fear. The golden liqueur splashed every which way from the collision, droplets spraying onto the floor and lazily cascading down the green walls. The bottle completely shattered, dangerous shards of glass flew everywhere, little bits pinging against the floor, walls, and furniture.

Tears streaking her cheeks not unlike the liquor on the wall, Cuddy looked at him completely taken aback by what he had just done. But it wasn't enough to give Wilson pause, to stop him from ordering, "Don't mention her name. Don't act like you know what she would have wanted."

Her voice was shaky, breathy. "Wilson…"

"No." He wasn't going to soften just because she wanted him to. "You didn't even know her. You don't know what she would have wanted. So shut up."

Her eyes widening at the maliciousness in his words, Cuddy began to look at him as though she had never seen him before in her life. And yet, despite her obvious shock at his anger, that didn't stop her from speaking, from continuing to push him. "No, you're right," she said sarcastically. "I didn't know Amber at all. I mean, sure, she called my cell phone and my office number at least three times a day to tattle about what House had done to her and to you, but I didn't know her at all. I have no idea what she would have wanted for you. You're right; she probably wanted you to be a miserable, cruel asshole."

Immediately he sighed, turning away from her. Not unlike a balloon being popped with a sharp needle, he completely deflated, his anger dissipating. Because, finally seeing just how horrible he was being to her, Wilson couldn't continue, couldn't bear to think about how ungrateful, how House-like he was being.

One of his hands running through his hair, he apologized. "I'm sorry. Cuddy, I… I'm so sorry."

Not daring to look at her, he was shocked when her cool hand settled on his back. And even now, when they were standing shoulder to shoulder, he kept his gaze fixed on an arbitrary piece of the facing wall.

The palm of her hand ran along his back as she consoled, "It's okay… As you're aware, most of the contact I've had with another human being in the last month has been with House. A brain-injured House," she stressed.

At that moment, Wilson caught a fraction of a smile out of the corner of his eye. "I'm used to the fighting," Cuddy reassured. "The bottle's a new touch," she conceded with a wry grin on her face. "But I can handle the yelling. I don't need an apology... although it is nice to hear one."

As the seconds passed, he was becoming increasingly aware of the way his body was shaking. Afraid of and ashamed by his own outburst, he had never been that angry before in his life, he thought. Or, if he had been that furious, he'd never responded the way he just did.

Aware of just how lame it sounded, he apologized once more, "I'm sorry."

Her hand moving to his shoulder, she squeezed the joint reassuringly. "I'm not mad. I just want you to be okay."

"Clearly… I'm not," Wilson confessed, gesturing at himself with his hand.

"It's barely been a month, Wilson. You have to give it time."

He didn't say anything back to her, because, although she was not the first person to allude to that old saying – "Time heals everything" – he still wasn't sure how to respond. Because… he wasn't sure it was true; he wasn't sure he could believe that each passing moment meant a step towards "healing."

He wasn't sure he could believe that there would be a time where the sting of House's actions no longer burned him to the core.

And if time were responsible for old wounds scabbing over, Wilson wondered how much time it would take for this to heal. The damage to his soul so overwhelming and deep, he couldn't help but think it would take years, at least, to get to that point where he could think of Amber without pain coursing through him.

His mouth clamped shut, Wilson didn't respond to Cuddy, because he didn't have the heart to tell her that he would probably be dead before the amount of years it would take to heal him had passed.

Silence awkwardly ensued, the understanding that he needed to say something resting heavily on his shoulders. Because, as much as he knew that he had to tell her that he would be fine, as much as it was somehow his responsibility to reassure her, he couldn't. And so he remained quiet, allowing himself the luxury of accepting her comfort.

Not that it lasted long.

Pulling away from him, Cuddy cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Okay, I'm gonna clean up the glass, and then I'm going to have to go." Her words sounded apologetic towards the end.

But no apology could make up for the loss he was keenly feeling once more. His voice tight, he asked, "Go?"

She at least had the good manners to look upset about it. "I can't stay here. I have to go back."

"To House, you mean," Wilson clarified accusingly.

"Yes." Her reply was honest, apologetic. "I can't leave him by –"

"Oh, of course not," he told her sarcastically, following her as she headed into the kitchen to grab a dustpan and broom.

Rummaging through one of the closets for what she wanted, she didn't look back when she replied dryly, "You make it sound so unseemly, as though watching over a person with clear mental and physical impairment, addiction, and depression issues is nothing more than coddling him."

She stood back up, turning around to face him in order to give him a pointed look.

But Wilson wasn't paying attention to that, because he was too busy contemplating what she had just said about House.

Truth be told, the image she painted of him was one Wilson didn't recognize for the most part. Yes, he was familiar with the "physical impairment" part, and as his experiment with the anti-depressants had proven, House's outlook on the world was more than a little chemically based.

But Wilson hadn't realized that there were more… serious ramifications from House's accident.

If Wilson had thought about it, he knew he would have realized that the possibility of brain trauma, of brain damage had always been there. Actually, looking at the series of events now, he couldn't help but think that it was probably nothing short of amazing that House had recovered at all. That amount of trauma in such a short period… very rarely did that end well, he knew.

But he hadn't thought about that in the last several weeks much at all, really.

And Wilson instantly knew why; it wasn't a matter of being a bad doctor. This wasn't some unintentional oversight on his part. Rather, if he hadn't considered it, it was because he didn't want to.

It was because he didn't want to think at all about what House might have lost.

But now, thanks to Cuddy, Wilson had to.

And truth be told, despite every fiber of his being say that he shouldn't care, some part of him still managed to frown. Try as he might to ignore what she was saying, that little piece of him was still moved by her words, was still saddened by the idea of House being permanently hurt in some way.

And Wilson supposed, as he followed Cuddy back into the dining room, that it was that side of him that had him asking cautiously, "What kind of mental impairment?"

She hesitated at first to tell him, which he thought would have made sense, what with doctor-patient confidentiality and all. But seeing as how they had both violated that rule numerous times to talk about and treat House, he didn't think her hesitation now was justified. And if anything, Wilson found it a bit offensive. "You're not going to tell me?" he asked curiously. "You think I'm going to use whatever you say against –"

"No," she interrupted, quickly dispelling where his thought process was going. "It's got nothing to do with you. I'm just… concerned with how he'll react if he finds out I told you."

Not looking at him, Cuddy tossed the dustpan onto the ground and began to sweep up the glass. "He's not doing great," she admitted carefully. "He's forgetful, has trouble paying attention. He can't sleep if there's noise anywhere near the apartment."

Wilson shrugged. That didn't exactly sound that much of a stretch for House, albeit it wasn't exactly normal behavior for him either. "Has trouble paying attention or just doesn't want to?" Wilson asked pointedly. "So far, you're not telling me anything new. He's probably just doing those things to –"

"He didn't notice that I was dosing him with antidepressants until the other day when he looked down and saw the pills and, after a month of taking them, realized that they were antidepressants," she interrupted insistently.

"Or more than likely…" Wilson suggested slowly, trying to think of a logical explanation. "He just didn't care what you were giving him and swallowed without thinking, because he's an addict, and that's what addicts do. When I was a med student, I once saw a patient come into the E.R., because she'd injected antifreeze into her body since she couldn't afford heroin."

She shook her head as the glass on the floor clinked against itself as she pushed some more into the dustpan. "This isn't like that. This wasn't House needing a fix. He truly did not know or care about what I was giving him, and that's not like him."

But he remained unconvinced, putting his hands on his hips in disbelief. "As long as you were giving him something for his leg, why would he care? As long as the Vicodin kept coming, as long as you were taking care of him in that way, why would he be concerned about anything else?"

As she reached down to grab the dustpan, Wilson caught the subtle movement of her shaking head. Dark locks swaying back and forth, it was impossible to see the disapproving look on her face, but he knew – he had no doubts – that there was one.

Standing back up, Cuddy said, "He gets angry over the smallest things. Furious," she added to stress the point.

"Well, it is House."

The retort one too many, it was the final straw that had her whipping around to face him angrily. "He cries, Wilson. And before you even say it," she said with a glare. "I understand that he has tear ducts, which make it biologically possible for him to cry. But this isn't normal for him."

She turned to head back into the kitchen, and he had no real choice but to follow her silently. As she dumped the glass into the trashcan, the shards tinkling lightly against one another, she told him, "You want to write off the drugs and the anger, fine. I get that. That's something you can easily explain as something else. But not this. His emotional lability is directly related to his injuries."

And Wilson couldn't argue with that fact… at least not if House really were doing the things she was saying he did. "He's crying," he repeated incredulously.

She shrugged. "I wouldn't believe it either if I hadn't seen it," she confessed.

But her comment made him wonder… "Is that what this is about? You telling me all these things about House, so that I'll feel bad for him and want to go see him? Or that I'll be so suspicious of the things you're saying are happening that I'll go talk to him?"

In return, Cuddy became visibly agitated. "No. I'm not trying to emotionally blackmail you. But you did ask me what sort of mental impairment he had, and now, I am giving you the answer – an answer you don't like but the only one I have, nonetheless." Stuffing the broom and dustpan back in their proper spots, she told him, "If you choose to go see him, I would support that, but I can't force you to do it. Just like I can't force him to get past his fear that you hate him and pick up the phone and call you."

Turning to face him once more, she looked almost grave, Wilson thought. "You don't want to talk to him, that's fine," she told him. Then her voice became hard, cold when she added, "But understand: you're not the only one suffering here."

Cuddy didn't give him a chance to respond, her feet moving quickly to the door. And this time, he had no intention of following her, her honest words too accurate for him to deny. Right before she shut the front door, she called back to him loudly, "Think about it."

And once again, Wilson was all alone, left with only her words to think about.

Which were echoing in Cuddy's own ears as well on her drive back to House's apartment.

She hadn't meant to be so… cruel (and there was no other way to describe her words in her own mind). But then again, she knew that she had gone there for his reassurance, for his comfort, and that had been wrong-headed, because he wasn't in a place to do either. Especially not when both of those things rested on the premise that House wasn't intentionally evil, wasn't intentionally trying to hurt her or push her away.

So really, Cuddy thought she shouldn't have expected things to go well, because there truly hadn't been any chance of it going right – at least not now.

Guilt uncomfortably pooling in her stomach, she felt as though her insides were being twisted together in one long braid. And for the first time since this had all begun, she was completely convinced that she had no idea what she was doing. Up until now, she'd told herself that she could handle Wilson and House separately, that even though she was choosing the latter over the former, Wilson would forgive her, would understand.

But now she understood: there was no easy solution here, and no matter how hard she tried, how much she wanted it to happen, House and Wilson wouldn't necessarily be okay. They wouldn't necessarily trust her simply because she wanted them to, and they certainly wouldn't talk to one another because she begged them to.

Which made her feel… incredibly useless.

And it was almost ironic that she should feel that way now, because, unlike when she'd left the apartment, Cuddy now had a way to make House do what she wanted; she knew how to get him to talk to Wilson.

Wilson himself had been the one to suggest it – bribery – although he had unintentionally given her all the information she needed to manipulate House. When she'd first heard the oncologist mention that House wouldn't do anything unless it fell in line with his own self-interest, she had known she could get through to him. And a plan had begun to form in her head. All the things she had heard House say he wanted, all the things she knew he wanted – she had been willing to consider giving him any of those things if it meant the relationship between the two men could go back to normal.

Turning onto House's street, Cuddy recognized that it was a little odd how invested she was in a peace between them. But then, she could also recognize that her motives were hardly pure. As much as she did want them to be friends, part of her, the administrator in her, knew that it was important that they make up for the sake of the hospital. Because if they weren't friends, then one of them would quit, and that would mean patients would die, having not been treated by one of them.

And maybe she could accept that if the only ramifications of them not being friends were professionally related. But the fact of the matter was this: in recent years, she had been House's second closest friend, and if Wilson were no longer number one, then that meant she moved up a spot. And that would mean that she'd have to be at House's beck and call whenever he needed her, which… she wasn't sure she wanted to be.

God, she thought in a moment of clarity, it sounded awful to think that.

No, it was awful to think that.

But nevertheless, it was how she felt. As much as she could handle House, as much as she even liked him, she wasn't sure she could deal with him full on. Because he required a lot of attention, attention she wasn't sure she could give him.

At this point in her life, it wasn't a matter of whether she wanted to do it, sadly enough. Ten years – hell, even five years – ago, Cuddy would have balked at the idea of being that close to House. But he had somehow endeared himself to her. Not totally unlike the way a parasite invaded its host, House had managed to worm his way under her skin. And though, on any given day, he was the world's biggest ass, intent on destroying her career, she'd come to care for him.

A lot.

Because she'd seen the genius in him; she'd occasionally seen the protective side in him, and most importantly, Cuddy had seen the humanity in him. And though those things didn't often express themselves in the nicest ways possible (okay, they rarely did), it was enough for her. It was enough to make her believe that he was worth any attention she gave him.

Granted, she supposed Wilson had felt the same way at some point, had felt that way up until he lost Amber. But… for better or worse, Cuddy doubted that the same thing would happen to her.

Not because House was going to change by not expecting her to drop everything to help him. That wasn't it at all, she realized grimly. As much as he might want to change, she doubted at this point in his life that he could; he was too particular, too set in his ways to make such a huge adjustment. Which meant that if he didn't meddle in her personal life, it was because she, essentially, didn't have one.

She hadn't had a date in over a year. Sex was little more than a distant memory, and who the hell knew when her last actual relationship had been. And those facts alone made her situation and potential friendship with House completely different than the one Wilson had had or did have.

Wilson with his three ex-wives and assorted mistresses always had other people to think about and take care of. Never, not once in all of the time that she'd known him, had he been without some sort of prospective suitor.

Which, to be perfectly honest, worried her a little. His health aside, it made her nervous, if only because of the ramifications it could have had with his work. After all, she could only fiddle with the placement of the nursing staff, half of whom he'd probably slept with easy, so much before someone on the short staff quit. And, more worrisome, although she had strongly discouraged him from sleeping with patients… she had heard things.

Of course, half of the rumors floating around the hospital were false, ninety percent of those created by House out of spite. But true or false, those particular rumors had always struck a chord with her. Because they never seemed outlandish, never seemed completely out of the realm of possibilities, and that worried her on a professional level.

On a personal level… Cuddy couldn't deny that she was horrifically envious. Sure, some might say that Wilson slept with so many women, married so many women, because he was just as lonely as she felt – or just as afraid to be lonely, anyway.

But that argument fell short with her. Because even if their fears were the same, the way he coped with it sounded so much more enjoyable. He at least got to have sex, she thought bitterly. Alimony and the threat of catching all sorts of STDs aside, his way of dealing with loneliness allowed him the blissful experience of waking up next to someone each and every day, allowed him something that she hadn't had in a very long time.

And it wasn't for a lack of trying on her part either. Short of paying for it, she'd done everything she could to find someone to date. But it hadn't worked, didn't work, and if she were being perfectly honest, would never work. Because it was a universal truth, it seemed, that women had no problem dating smart, successful men like Wilson while men never wanted those qualities in a woman.

Men took one look at her and wanted her for about five seconds until they found out what she did; her ass, apparently, was not enough to cancel out the words "Dean of Medicine."

So… really, Cuddy knew she would never be in the same position as Wilson; she would never have to choose between House and some boyfriend, because that scenario required someone to have more than a fleeting interest in her, and that was clearly less likely than being abducted by aliens.

Which meant, she supposed, that she was better suited for the role of House's best friend than Wilson had ever been. If she became his first priority, House would never have to worry about ruining her personal life; there was simply no personal life left to ruin.

Granted, there would still be… issues.

Work would make things difficult for them to be friends, she knew. The need to be able to tell him no was something that they were both keenly aware of, even if House resented her half the time because of it. And if she did become his best friend, it would be harder to maintain boundaries for him. Already, as the years progressed, she thought she was becoming softer, becoming more inherently trusting of him, which wasn't necessarily the greatest thing.

And for that reason and that reason alone, she wondered if she could ever be the "New Wilson." Because if there ever came a time where she was unnecessarily letting House risk his patient's life, if there were ever a moment where her friendship became a liability at work, House would push her away in the cruelest manner possible; he wasn't going to risk the way they worked together for someone he could trust in other ways.

So maybe, she decided as she pulled into a parking spot in front of House's apartment building, the key wasn't to replace Wilson. Perhaps the answer was to… spread out the need, for lack of a better phrase; bring Wilson back into House's life but keep herself firmly rooted in it as well, and give House two people to handle all of his baggage, she thought.

Getting out of the car, Cuddy told herself with a sigh, it was a perfect plan.

If only he were willing to call Wilson.

But that promptly brought her back to what the oncologist had said, brought her back to the idea of bribery.

Of course, figuring out what House wanted wasn't necessarily going to be the easiest task. For sure, she couldn't come right out and ask him what he would need in order to call Wilson. Because he would never give her an honest answer, and, guaranteed, the first thing he would say would be something along the lines of "Show me your tits." So he would be of no help, she knew.

But then, his mother had reminded her that his birthday was in two days (hence the call), and Cuddy was sure she could figure out something by then, so that she could lull him into doing what she wanted under the guise of celebrating his birthday.

Granted… House had never been one to throw a big party, to make a big deal out of the day, and she knew that. But she also knew that, in so many ways, he was a child, a big baby who believed gifts were an accurate measure of friendship and who wouldn't, more importantly, pass up this opportunity should she present it to him.

Unlocking the front door to the apartment, Cuddy couldn't help but feel slightly reassured with some sort of plan in place. It wasn't perfect, obviously, but it gave her something to work towards, something to do other than make sure House didn't drown in the bathtub.

It hit her then, as she was pushing the door open, that perhaps leaving him alone all this time wasn't a smart idea. He was, after all, like a child, constantly in need of supervision or else he would wreak havoc.

But, much to her surprise, he currently wasn't doing much of anything, his sleeping form sprawled out on the couch.

Okay, so that wasn't exactly true. His ears still so sensitive, the sound of her unlocking and opening the door had clearly woken him, his bleary eyes glancing at her.

"Sorry," Cuddy told him in a low voice, quietly shutting the front door behind her. When he didn't reply, she made her way over to him, sitting down on the coffee table in front of the couch. "Were you asleep this whole time?"

House shook his head in response. Sleepily, he replied, "Ate the rabbit food you left too."

"Rabbits don't eat beef," she told him dryly, a little annoyed that, even after all this time, he wasn't appreciative of all the work she put into making sure he ate food not completely laced with preservatives and artificial chemicals and sugars.

His eyelids fluttering shut, he murmured, "Mutant rabbits would."

A worried look crossed her face, despite the fact that she was rather amused by the comment. Leaning forward a little, Cuddy placed a cool hand on his warm forehead. He wasn't feverish, and for the most part, she'd doubted that he would be. But given his weakened condition, she was more than a little paranoid about him getting any sicker than he already was.

He looked fine, however. "I think you're tired," she mentioned knowingly.

He concurred, "Exhausted…"

And although she thought that it was bitchy to mention it, she couldn't help but chastise a little, "This is what happens when you stay awake all night. Your body can't handle –"

"I know." He interrupted her, but his words were calmly uttered, spoken in the kind of voice he only had when he was completely drained.

Sighing Cuddy stood up. Any plan to get him to call Wilson would have to wait for the time being, she knew, understanding that House was completely useless when he was this tired. And as much as she wished this little spat between the two men was over and done with, she couldn't plow her way through it; she couldn't force House to ignore what his own body was telling him by asking him to call Wilson right now.

To push House in that way was nothing short of cruel, and as his doctor, she knew that it would be criminal to put his well being second to making peace with a friend.

So she would wait; she had to.

Gently, she suggested, "Why don't you lay in bed if you're that tired?"

He lazily waved her off with a hand, his arm flopping back down onto the couch. A scoffing sound was muffled by the back of his throat. "Too far."

"You'll be more comfortable in bed."

But House simply repeated, "Too far."

She nodded her head in understanding, though his closed eyes couldn't see it. "Well, I'm going to have to do work around here, so –"

"Just shut up and do it then," he snapped, letting her know that he had had more than enough of this conversation.

So much for him using the time alone to calm down and realize that he was being an asshole. Which made her reply coldly, "Fine."

If he wanted to be lazy and stay on the couch, then really, it wasn't her fault if she woke him up when she started to do work. She'd warned him, she told herself, and if he wanted to still be an ass about it, that was his problem.

Irritation quickly waking inside of her, it would, she knew, take a few minutes for it to dissipate. And in that time, she would have to control herself, would have to resist the growing temptation to make tons of noise just to annoy him.

But just as she was about to walk away from him, House reached out and grabbed her hand. The sudden motion nearly scared the hell out of her; she was so unprepared for him to do that that she loudly gasped as his fingers closed around her wrist, which made him smirk for a split second.

In response she rolled her eyes but calmly asked, "Do you need something?"

He didn't answer her question. Actually, he didn't say anything at all, which was completely unlike House.

Instead, he simply opened his eyes slowly, apology clearly visible in the bright blue irises looking back at her. And Cuddy understood then, without any words being said, that he was sorry for being an ass, for pushing her away, for… everything.

Giving him a curt nod that said she knew what he was trying to say, she told him softly, "Try and get some rest."

He was asleep before she even had a chance to spread the chenille blanket on the back of the couch over his body.

When he woke up what must have been hours later, House was surprised to notice that it was dark outside. Considering the smell of food in the air, he knew that Cuddy had been cooking, which meant that there had been noise that hadn't woke him.

Rubbing his aching forehead with one hand, his burning thigh with the other, he thought it was odd that he'd been able to sleep through that – so odd that he couldn't help but wonder why that was.

His first thought being that Cuddy must have drugged him, House was curious to know what that said about him as a person. Probably something he already knew, he figured, like that he was a skeptical bastard or an idiot incapable of trusting others.

Well, at least some things in his life were immovable, he thought grimly, pushing the afghan off of his sweaty body.

Moving off of the warm couch, he felt agitation wash over him hotly – not at Cuddy but at his own body heat for making his shirt and sweatpants stick to him uncomfortably. Beads of moisture collecting in every crevice of his body, even between his fingers and toes, House really did have to wonder what the hell had made him able to sleep for that long. Because the discomfort he was feeling now was so overwhelming, it really did seem nothing short of amazing that he would have been able to subconsciously ignore it for so many hours.

But all of a sudden, he was no longer interested in the why, the way his parched mouth felt like sandpaper taking immediate precedence over everything else.

He limped into the kitchen and headed straight towards the refrigerator. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Cuddy standing over the stovetop with her gaze fixed on him. As he began to root around in the fridge, she told him, "Don't eat anything. I'm heating up the soup from the other day."

Well, that explained why he hadn't woken up, he realized; pulling out containers of soup and heating it in a pot wasn't exactly noisy.

And yet knowing that didn't make him feel any better. Pulling out the gallon jug of milk, House could only think that soup was the last thing he wanted; he was hot and sweaty and feeling way too much like a recalcitrant child to say anything but "I'm not eating that."

"Then I guess you're not eating, because I'm not making anything else," she replied simply.

He rolled his eyes, taking a swig out of the carton. "That threat would actually mean something if I were six years old and didn't know how to cook –"

"There isn't any peanut butter or canned soup in the apartment," she interrupted. "What, exactly, are you going to make for yourself?"

"Oh, you got me there," he said, his voice loud and mocking. "If only there was someone else I could call to make me food – food that I actually like, no less." He pretended to ponder for a second before saying, "Oh, I know. There are people I can call to do that."

Setting the milk on the counter, House turned to head towards the phone, which was in the living room. But he'd barely taken a step before Cuddy, not surprisingly, popped up in his way. He rolled his eyes and, noticing just how short she was in her bare feet, irritably ordered, "Move outta the way, midget."

Instead she folded her arms across her chest. "You're not ordering take out."

"Gonna spank me if I do?"

"No." A smirk appearing on her face, she said, "I've spent plenty of time with your ass in the last month or so. I'm not particularly interested in seeing it, much less touching it, on my own accord."

This time it was his turn to smirk. "You sound like one of my hookers when Wilson's credit card is declined."

She was clearly not amused by the comment. "Look, you and I both know that the best thing for you right now is to have a very specific diet for both your heart and your brain. I know that it's frustrating and different and not exactly what you're used to. I get it," she told him in a voice so tight that it could only mean that she was trying to stop herself from yelling. "But that's the way it is for now, and I know that you know that."

When he didn't respond to her words right away (there wasn't a sarcastic reply at his fingertips), she continued, "And since you ate the soup when I first made it, I can only conclude that you are screwing with me. Which is annoying, but given how pathological you are about it, I assume you don't know how to stop yourself. So… fine," she said, waving a hand angrily in the air. "But stop being such a self-destructive ass about it."

"So I'm allowed to mess around with you but only in ways that you approve of," he pointed out snottily.

"That's what I'm saying, yes," she snarled, stalking back towards the pot on the stove.

The whole thing was rather curious, he thought at that moment. Boundaries as a general concept had never been something he concerned himself with – other than how to push beyond them, that was. And in this particular case, he wasn't sure what the ramifications of going past them would be.

So he decided to ask, "Then what happens if I order the food I want?"

He watched her stir the soup in silence. Her response not immediate, it took her a minute or so to tell him, "Then you order it. And you eat whatever it is that you get that's full of sugar and fat, and you deal with the way your body digests that." Giving him a pointed look, Cuddy continued, "That will be punishment enough."

And he couldn't deny that she had a point. As much as it killed him to admit it, she was right; his body wouldn't react well to the food he was threatening to order.

Well, okay, so she was wrong about his heart. That muscle in his body was strong; his cholesterol was good, and if the organ had the pesky tendency to stop, it had nothing to do with its inability to handle fatty foods and everything to do with being shot, taking too much Physostigmene, and having his thigh go through the painful process of dying within him.

Among other things.

His brows knitting together, he couldn't help but think then that when his health history put together in that manner, maybe she wasn't entirely wrong. Maybe he should do more than the equivalent of crossing his fingers and hoping for the best.

But either way, that wasn't the issue here – at least not in his mind. Putting his heart aside for a moment, House understood that the part of him that would suffer the most was his head. Everything else might be fine, but his brain would not do well with processing carbohydrates like sugar, like the ones found in the food he suddenly found himself wanting, despite knowing it would be bad.

If he ate those things, it would be really bad, the "good" side of himself stressed. Because in the digestive process, his body would turn those carbs into alcohol, and given that his damn head currently always made him feel like he was ten shots in…

It would not be a good combination.

He would become tired, confused, cranky (okay, crankier)… simply put, all around a complete disaster.

And of course part of him was tempted to become all of those things just to annoy Cuddy. Despite his non-apology apology earlier, despite actually feeling bad for basically treating her like crap the past month, he couldn't help but want to irritate her more; it was just something that came too natural for him, was something that he truly enjoyed doing even if he realized he shouldn't.

But at this point, he was so tired of being tired, confused, and cranky that he didn't have it in him to go into the living room, order the food, and spend the night annoying the crap out of her. Which meant that he didn't have any other choice but to capitulate. "Fine," he said bitterly.

Looking over at him with a frown on her face, Cuddy replied, "Well, there's no need to pout about it."

"I'm not pouting." But even to his own tinnitus-afflicted ears, he could hear, past the ringing, the childishness of his response.

She rolled her eyes. "I stand corrected." And yet before he even had a chance to mutter something sarcastic, Cuddy continued, sounding confused, "I don't even understand why you're making a big deal about this. You ate the same soup a couple days ago, and you liked it."

"Well, I'm hot," he replied in agitation, one of his hands wiping the sweat off the back of his neck.

The admittance visibly giving Cuddy pause, she looked him over seriously for a minute. Her lips were pursed together tightly, the ends turned downward into a deep frown. And honestly, he couldn't help but think that she looked like someone who had bit down on a lemon.

Finally though, she snapped, "So that's what this is about? You're hot, and you don't want to eat something hot. But rather than actually say it, you act like a jackass and force a confrontation with me. That sounds like the better option to you?"

He shrugged. When she put it like that, it did seem like the more ridiculous choice – albeit it was hardly a rare option he took, especially when it came to his dealings with her.

"You know what? Never mind," she told him immediately, holding a hand up to stop him from offering any reply. "You go change into something cooler. Splash your face with cold water. I will make you something else. All right?"

House had nothing to say to that. Part of him wanted to throw her words back at her – that she'd thought fighting him over the food was a better option than just giving him what he wanted. But considering he was getting what he wanted, he, instead, turned around and went to change. His silence the closest he was going to get to an apology, the quiet between them lasted through dinner.

And frankly, it would have lasted longer if not for Cuddy speaking the second she stood up to clear the dishes. Her words sounding completely rehearsed, she nearly announced, "Your mother reminded me that your birthday is in two days."

His mind, as sluggish as it was, began to piece the puzzle together in front of him. As he worked hard to figure out what she was doing, he distracted her with sarcasm. "Oh goodie, that'll be plenty of time for you to match your pasties and g-string with the color of the giant cake you're gonna pop out of."

Putting the dishes into the sink with a small clatter, Cuddy whirled around to look at him. Doubt and amusement mixing together bizarrely to contort the features on her face, she told him, "There's no giant cake and –"

"Yeah, you're probably right," he interrupted mournfully. "There's no way there's a cake big enough for your ass to fit in."

"And here I was about to offer to get you a gift. But if you're going to make ass jokes, you can…"

She kept talking, but it was at that point that House lost complete interest in the words coming out of her mouth. Or rather, he was still interested in what she'd said, but he didn't need to hear anything else she told him, because he instinctively understood: he had all the pieces of the puzzle in his hands.

She'd just said that she'd been considering getting him a gift. But considering, in all of the years he'd known her, she'd never gotten him a single thing for his birthday, there had to be a reason for the change of heart.

On the one hand, there was pity, he thought to himself, ignoring the way Cuddy was glaring at him. But there'd been plenty of times where he'd been pitiable; he was a cripple, after all, and while that meant she would let him get away with a lot of things, her pity had never presented itself with presents.

So what had changed?

From his perspective, not much really, he thought. His head was all messed up, yeah, but he wasn't that much more pathetic. The tears that seemed to come all too frequently didn't help, of course. But House could only believe that if his inexplicable emotions were worthy of gifts, Cuddy would have been pampering him already, instead of bitching and moaning about how he should call Wilson.

And it was then that everything became so clear.

Wilson.

The pieces of the puzzle sliding together to create one crystal clear picture, there was no doubt in his mind what this was about. "It's interesting that you brought the date up for no apparent reason," he said suddenly, his lips contorting into a sneer. "Since I didn't mention it and since you didn't mention it when I asked you what my mother talked to you about."

She rolled her eyes. "I just remembered, House."

"No, you didn't," he replied knowingly. "Because if you did just remember, you wouldn't say anything. And if you did say something, it wouldn't be now; you'd wait two days until it was my birthday. And if you did say something now, you wouldn't say that you were thinking of getting me a gift. And if you did say that, then it would only be, because you want me to be a good boy and do something for you."

House couldn't help but smirk at the way she nervously smiled. "And since there's only one thing you want me to do," he continued slowly, not giving her a chance to speak. "I know the only reason you mentioned my birthday's coming up is so that you can bribe me into calling Wilson."

Her mouth hung open a little in reaction, although he couldn't tell if it was out of surprise or annoyance.

Truthfully, he sort of suspected the latter. Because Cuddy turned around then, quietly starting to scrub at the dishes with a yellow and green sponge. And he was content to give her the distraction, his eyes never leaving her despite keeping his mouth shut. Because there was no way she could deny his words, and knowing that, he didn't really care if it took her all night to respond; no matter how long it took, her answer would have to be the truth, and he wasn't opposed to waiting for it. Just knowing that he had stunned her into finally shutting up, just knowing that he had been right would make each second of her silence that much more enjoyable.

But surprisingly, he didn't have to wait at all. Whipping back around to face him, Cuddy immediately conceded, "Fine, you're right. That's my plan. What's it going to cost me?" Her voice was so matter of fact, so unapologetic, that House couldn't help but appreciate the honesty.

Nevertheless, he gave her a pointed look. "You think there's something you can give me that'll make me want to talk to Wilson?"

"I do. Yes." Drying her hands on a dishtowel, she walked back to the butcher block that they'd been eating over. "Despite everything you've been saying, I think you do want to talk to him. At this point, even if it's just to prove to me that I'm wrong and he does hate you, you're going to call him."

House, however, remained unconvinced. "I prove you wrong at least ten times a day," he said proudly. "I don't need to call Wilson to get my fix."

"Then like I said," she told him through gritted teeth, batting her eyelashes in the way she only ever did when she was both irritated with him and trying to humor him. "What's it going to cost me?"

He thought about it for a moment, his eyes cast upward as though an answer were going to fall from the sky and land in his lap. And then he replied, "Well, for starters, you're gonna have to okay the release of our sex tape."

"We don't have a sex tape," Cuddy said quickly, confused her eyes darting dangerously toward in him in a way that said, "We better not have a sex tape."

"Oh. Then I guess for starters," he told her, amending his earlier statement. "We need to make a sex tape."

She scowled. "Why don't you just ask me to set myself on fire instead?"

"Aw, come on. It's not that bad. You clearly enjoyed it the last time. You screamed so loudly, it was –"

"It wasn't that good," she countered immediately. "If it had been, we probably would have done it again. Since we didn't…" She let him fill in the rest of the sentence.

"Then I guess we'll be filming our mediocre sex."

Her eyes narrowing on him, there was a growl in the back of her throat when she told him, "We're not having sex."

House shrugged. "Then you must not really care about –"

"Just because I'm not going to prostitute myself doesn't mean I don't care about saving your friendship with Wilson," she pointed out.

He was willing to concede that, saying, "That may be true… I guess." However, that said, he wasn't going to budge on his terms, as sex was the only thing he could be sure she would say no to at this point. "But that's all I want. So until you spread your legs, you won't be getting what you want."

Cuddy looked at him carefully for a moment, clearly waiting for him to say that he was joking. But when he said nothing of the sort, she simply shook her head. "I won't give you that. Think of something else."

Of course, for the next twenty-four hours or so, he did absolutely the opposite of that. For the most part not thinking about her proposition at all, he only mentioned it every now and then when he felt like making her both annoyed and uncomfortable (which meant she was totally thinking about it) by reminding her of the awesome sex they could be having.

But just as he wouldn't budge neither did she, and frankly House was okay with that, because, truth be told, he wouldn't know what to do with himself if she were to say yes. He was only saying that he wanted it to annoy her, and if doing it actually became something she were willing to do…

Well, simply put, he was screwed.

Of all the things he had no intention of doing, Cuddy had to be near the top off the list.

But as the hours passed, he couldn't help but fear that she was going to cave – like she usually did. And if she were to do that, then… he would have no idea how to proceed. Obviously, he wasn't going to have sex with her, he thought grimly. So he would have to tell her that he'd been sarcastic, and that would start a fight, blah, blah, blah… Honestly, the details were unimportant to him. He instinctively understood that that future was one he hoped to be able to avoid, the shrieking Cuddy would be definitely doing already giving him a headache.

And putting that aspect of the whole situation aside, House wondered if he were missing an opportunity here. Because part of him understood that if she agreed to sex, it was because she knew he didn't actually want to have it. Which meant that it wasn't a true test of what she was willing to do, and he knew that all too well.

So then, in addition to the fear that she was going to cave, there was the niggling thought that he should be testing her. He should be seeing just how far she was willing to go, just how much she was willing to do (and buy) for him.

Granted, if Wilson were here, he would say that House was being ridiculous, trying to quantify friendship. But then Wilson wasn't here; he'd left, so his opinion didn't really matter, House told himself stubbornly, ignoring the sharp pang within him at the thought of his best friend.

And even if, in theory, Wilson were right, it didn't stop House from thinking about seeing what Cuddy might buy him. Childish though it undoubtedly was, the thought was one he couldn't ignore – not even as he tried to watch Prescription Passion.

Shuffling uncomfortably on the couch, he couldn't, try as he might, deny the tempting idea. The television was on and loud, obviously, but it might as well have been on mute or even off for all the attention he was paying to it. The storylines going in one ear and out the other, the cheesy sex scenes rolling right on past him without a single sarcastic remark being uttered – this was unlike every other time he watched the show.

And his distraction did not, apparently, go unnoticed by Cuddy. She was sitting Indian-style on the floor, her elbows and a bunch of folders on his coffee table. Doing work she clearly wasn't paying that much attention to what was going on with all the characters either. But she did note his lack of interest, because when he moved around on the couch some more, she asked, "Are you okay?"

His attention being torn away from his thoughts, he looked at her blankly. "What?"

"You're squirming," she told him. "And since you're not actually a toddler in desperate need of a diaper change – no matter how much you insist on acting like one – I'm wondering if something is wrong."

He shot her a dark look but didn't respond to the insult. "I'm fine."

"Your leg?"

"Is fine," he finished, agitation beginning to grow within him.

"The tinnitus?"

"Well, there does seem to be this annoying, high-pitched shrill noise in my ear," he admitted. "Oh, no, wait. That's just you."

She sighed and turned back to her work. As she did so, Cuddy muttered, "Forgive me for being concerned."

"Forgive me for not giving a crap."

She ignored the remark, remaining silent thankfully. Or maybe not quite so thankfully, he considered, because within a couple minutes, as a result of her silence, he once more was thinking about the situation at hand.

Did he keep messing around with her and demanding sex?

Or did he actually take the opportunity to see what she was willing to do for him?

And if the latter continued to sound appealing, then he had to decide whether it was worth calling Wilson to see the results. Because it was one thing just to see what she would buy him, but House understood that it was completely different when he had to give her something in return.

Certainly, it was different when the one and only thing she wanted was for him to talk to Wilson, was the one thing House was unsure he could do. Or rather, it was the one thing he would not do, he clarified to himself, since technically, he could call Wilson. His fingers worked just fine; the issue was simply one of whether or not he wanted to hear his best friend say that he hated him.

And there was no doubt in House's mind that that was exactly what Wilson was going to say. Cuddy seemed to believe otherwise, seemed almost convinced that killing Amber was something they could all get past.

But House didn't believe that.

At all.

And calling Wilson would only lead to a confirmation of what House already suspected – knew – to be true. Which meant that, rationally speaking, he wasn't really giving Cuddy much of anything by agreeing to her terms. If anything, part of him realized that she'd been right about one thing – that by calling Wilson, House would be proving her wrong about this entire affair. And that did count for something.

But…

Regardless of the facts that House already knew how this would end and that Cuddy would be wrong, he had no desire to pick up the phone. For whatever reason, despite the prospect of being right, he didn't want to go down that road. As irrational as it was to be afraid of something he already knew was true…

He was terrified of hearing Wilson say that he hated him.

And knowing that, House couldn't help but feel cowardly. For all of his talk of wanting the truth, he wasn't all that interested in having it here.

The hypocrisy of it all made him uncomfortable, so much so that it was with effort that he stopped himself from squirming once more.

Trying to find some distance from his feelings, he tried to look at the situation scientifically.

No matter what he did, he told himself, Wilson was gone. Calling him, not calling him – it didn't really matter in the end, because the result would always be the same.

On the other hand, what would happen with Cuddy was yet to be determined, was dependent on what House decided to do. If he kept demanding sex, he wouldn't learn much of anything, he realized. That was as good as rejecting her offer all together.

But if he did bite the bullet and call Wilson, he would begin to see what Cuddy was capable of. And considering she was the closest thing he had to a best friend, he thought it was probably important to find that information out.

"Fine," House said with a sigh, what he needed to do unfortunately incredibly clear.

The utterance enough to make Cuddy look up once more, he wasn't surprised by her furrowed brow or her "What?"

He wished he didn't have to explain, wished he didn't have to give in to her, but he understood that he did. The words exceedingly bitter tasting to his tongue, it was with effort that he said, "I'll call Wilson."

She looked at him carefully, her eyes scanning his face for some sign that he was screwing around with her. "I'm not having sex with you," she told him once more.

Shrugging House replied, "Fine."

And that apparently confused her. "So… you're just going to pick up the phone after all this time and call him? You don't want –"

"Oh, I still want presents," he interrupted quickly. "I am the birthday boy after all."

"And what does the birthday boy want?" Her tone was dry with a touch of disbelief, making her sound as though she were still convinced that he was just messing with her; truth be told, he couldn't blame her.

"I don't know. Just get me something I'll like."

At first Cuddy didn't say anything. Her eyes crinkled slightly around the edges, she was clearly waiting for him to tell her that he was kidding. Again, he couldn't blame her for that, he thought. There'd been way too many times in the past where the punch line would come right about now, and he'd make her look like a fool. So it made sense that she would be slow to believe him.

But eventually she said, "Well, if you're serious –"

"I am."

"Then… pick the phone and –"

"I'm not calling him now," he said quickly.

That obviously didn't make her happy. "I'm not going to buy you something until I know for sure that you're actually going to hold up your end of the bargain."

He smirked. "And you think I'm going to pick up the phone before I know for sure that you're actually going to hold up your end of the bargain?"

Snottily she told him, "You don't have to worry about me; I am a trustworthy person."

"And I am a skeptical person, which means I'm not calling him until –"

One of her hands raising to rub her forehead, she stopped him by interrupting, "All right, fine. Tomorrow I will go out, and while I'm shopping you can call Wilson. And your mother." He watched as her fingertips began to massage her temples. "Use your cell phone when you do it, so I can check your phone log. If the calls are there, you'll get… I don't know, whatever the hell it is that I buy you."

"Fine."

The conversation ending there, he spent the rest of the night trying to ignore what he had to do the next day. All of his focus on the antics on Prescription Passion, he desperately tried to immerse himself in the fictitious world he had hours of on his Tivo. And that worked well enough, he supposed.

But his birthday came quickly anyway, no amount of cheesy dialogue able to slow down time. And when, after breakfast, Cuddy bid him goodbye, he realized that there was no more avoiding the conversation he didn't really want to have.

Of course, he could put it off a little longer, he told himself, picking up his cell phone and dialing his parents' phone number. But after ten minutes of small talk, of his mother telling him the most mundane things, House had had enough.

He didn't bother to tell her about his accident. She didn't believe him when he told her that he was fine (he'd never been able to lie to her), of course. But then, she hadn't pressed the matter, and for that, he was grateful, because he didn't know how to tell her about the bizarre turn of events. No doubt Cuddy wanted him to, but he had no intention of doing that.

If he did tell her what happened, his mother would want to help, would want to do something, but there was, frankly, nothing she could do, and it seemed stupid to make her worry if she didn't have to.

Besides, it wasn't like he could easily explain what had happened. How did one go about explaining that you killed your best friend's girlfriend in the most convoluted series of events?

The question went unanswered as they finished their conversation and hung up. And the query was completely forgotten when House realized that there was nothing to stop him from calling Wilson now.

Glancing down at the cell phone in his hands, he sighed. The things he was willing to do in the name of experimentation, he lamented, because he really didn't want to talk to Wilson.

Really really didn't want to do it.

But there wasn't any avoiding it – at least not anymore, not when he'd made a deal with the Devil and her tight ass.

So gritting his teeth, he threw caution to the wind. After all, it wasn't like he didn't know what Wilson was going to say. His friend's words something House had already thought of, he didn't actually need to hear them.

But as he dialed Cuddy's number (as that was where Wilson was hiding these days), House realized that in a matter of seconds he was going to hear them.

The mechanical sounds of the dial tone making his ear thrum uncomfortably, he winced at the noise and wished begrudgingly that Wilson would just pick up the damn phone already. No doubt his friend was probably in Cuddy's home at that moment, standing over the caller ID with his hands on his hips. And House could easily picture Wilson refusing to answer because it was his number coming up.

So really… it wasn't a surprise that the call went to Cuddy's voice mail. But then again, he hadn't considered what to do if Wilson didn't answer the phone.

As Cuddy's pre-recorded message began to fill his ears, House wondered whether or not he should say something at the beep. Should he apologize? Ask Wilson to call him? Say straight up that he was only calling, because Nurse Ratched was making him?

Frozen he didn't know what to say, although the last option didn't sound right, even to his own ears. Because even if he had picked up the phone thanks to Cuddy's silly ideas, saying that out loud wouldn't help matters; saying that out loud, actually, would only make Wilson hate him more. And it went without saying that House didn't want that.

But as the beep punctuated his silence loudly, making him hiss in pain, he could feel the words he had no idea he wanted to say bubbling inside of him. Saying nothing or pretending that he didn't really care about talking to him no longer options, he opened his mouth without thinking and murmured honestly, "I'm sorry," before hanging up the phone, convinced the apology had fallen on deaf ears.

However, unbeknownst to House, Wilson had heard what the older man had said – and didn't like it, as evidenced by the phone call Cuddy immediately received after.

She was in the middle of shopping for House when her cell rang. Taking her mind off the fact that she had no idea what to get him, she eagerly answered her phone without glancing at the caller ID. "This is Dr. Cuddy."

"Why is House calling me?"

Wilson's urgent, accusatory words filled her ears, giving her pause. Her immediate reaction was to consider how much better it would have been if she'd ignored the call and just kept shopping.

But since she had answered her phone, Cuddy realized she had no choice but to talk to Wilson. Reluctantly she asked, "So he did call you then?"

"I just said he did," he replied angrily.

Pursing her lips together, she counted to five, using the time to stop herself from saying something sarcastic and unhelpful. Finally she asked, "You actually talked to him?"

An outsider, she realized, might think that such a question was stupid. But since she knew House, it wasn't completely insane to believe that he might have just called and hung up or called and said nothing until Wilson hung up.

Wilson explained in frustration, "He left a message. I didn't want to talk to him. I don't want to talk to him."

Which made her both a little confused and annoyed. "Just the other day, though, you were saying he wasn't calling you and –"

"I want him to feel guilty," Wilson bit out. "I don't want to spend my time of making him feel better about himself." Not giving her a chance to respond, he warned her after a split second, "You tell him not to call me again. He calls again; he asks me to make this about him. Again. I'll quit my job and move to a place where he can't find me."

The tone of his voice left no doubts in her mind that he was serious. Something about his words made him sound so exhausted and fed up with the situation. And as depressing as that fact was, she couldn't blame him for feeling that way. Nor could she tell him to calm down and think about what he was saying, because he didn't give her the chance.

The click of the phone filling her ears before she even had the opportunity to open her mouth, she sighed and flipped her cell shut.

She realized that there was no point in calling him back now. Not only would he not answer, but maybe more importantly, Cuddy knew that if things had gone that badly, then there was no way House should be left alone.

And she had half a mind to turn around right now, leave the open shopping area that she was in, and return to the apartment. But at the moment, all she had to give House was two low-sugar cupcakes (one chocolate, one vanilla), and to go home now would mean dealing with his ire. Because like a little boy on Christmas, he would definitely be expecting more than some cake with blue sprinkles on top. And if that were all she gave him, he would throw a fit – a huge fit, considering he hadn't had a chance to talk to Wilson.

Which meant she couldn't go back to the apartment now, no matter how much part of her thought she should. Her only option really was to hurry up and find something that would mean enough to House to take his mind off of what had probably upset him.

But looking around her, she had no idea where to begin. She had the cupcakes, she reminded herself, but what else would he want?

For all of his distaste for the… entire world, she couldn't help but ask herself what the hell he actually liked.

Sitting down on a nearby bench, Cuddy thought about it. Well… for starters, he liked porn and prostitutes – which didn't help her at all, because he wasn't healthy enough for either, and frankly, having sex with him herself probably would be less embarrassing than that.

So, what was next on the potential list of things he would enjoy?

It took a moment for another possibility to pop in her head, took a second's pause before she remembered that he did have that horrible habit of stealing lollipops from the clinic. But then again, she couldn't exactly give him a bag of candy and call it a day. His body wouldn't be able to handle the refined sugar, or rather, she couldn't handle the way his body would react to the sugar. And even putting that issue aside, lollipops were hardly the type of gift she needed.

What else, she desperately thought, her eyes darting back and forth for something to prompt her.

He liked Reuben sandwiches – particularly Reubens that had been stolen from the hospital cafeteria. And she decided right then and there that that was what she'd get for lunch (or dinner depending on how long this took). Well, they wouldn't be from the hospital, and they certainly wouldn't be stolen, but the sandwich would be something he'd enjoy, eliminating any potential fight they would have about food.

At least for tonight anyway; tomorrow would probably be a completely different story, she thought grimly.

But that would be tomorrow and was therefore unimportant, because at the moment, she had bigger things to worry about.

Back on track, Cuddy immediately eliminated CDs (too noisy for his tinnitus), DVDS (everything he could possibly want, he would, no doubt already have), and books (his taste way too obscure and eclectic for her to find something he would reasonably enjoy). And aside from that, she couldn't think of anything else, because really… House didn't like much else.

Well, he liked insulting people – which he got a daily dose of by using her as a punching bag. And he liked talking about her breasts, which he also got to do on a daily basis, and even if he didn't get to do that, for some odd reason, she didn't feel like listening to his crass sexual come ons, much less make it an actual gift.

But then… what else was there?

Unfortunately, Cuddy realized with a frown, there really wasn't anything else. He was so damn particular that he wouldn't appreciate anything generic, and considering he hadn't given her any hints as to what to buy, she doubted he wanted something like that.

But damn it, he just did not like that much, she thought angrily. He didn't have hobbies; he liked playing music, but since the accident, she hadn't seen him play the piano or guitar, probably because of his tinnitus. But there was nothing else he was particularly interested in.

There were no sports (obviously), no clubs, no pets, no kids – nothing at all to guide her.

Closing her eyes, she mentally went room to room in his apartment, looking for some hidden interest that she could use. Having spent nearly all of her time in the last month in said apartment, she could easily picture where everything was – down to, in some cases, the way the books were arranged on the bookshelf.

But moving from the living room to the bedroom to the bathroom, she didn't learn anything new; there was no light shined on the matter, and honestly, she was beginning to doubt there was any light to find.

Cuddy didn't give up, however, her mind set on getting him something he would actually like and use.

So she continued her mental search, finally ending up in the kitchen. And it was there that she found something:

The stupid little cage he kept on one of the counters, despite her protestations that doing so was unsanitary. At the moment, she knew that nothing was living in there; she'd searched the thing after all, looking for drugs hidden in the bedding that still remained in there.

But she assumed that, at one point or another, an animal had lived in there, although for the life of her, she couldn't remember what. Stacy had told her a couple of years ago, and Cuddy vaguely recalled the conversation.

Had it been a rat?

Well, whatever it was didn't matter, she supposed. The important thing was she now had an idea, something to go off of. And with a pet supply shop in this shopping area, she was convinced she could find something there for him.

Standing up once more, Cuddy began to head in the store's direction. With each step, the more she thought about it, the more she believed getting some sort of small creature for House was a good idea.

Of course, she would never deny that he could use some… lessons in being a nicer, more sympathetic person. But he wasn't the kind of individual to be cruel to animals either, and she was sure that having something small to keep him company would only do a world of good for him. Because he could be so good, so attentive towards things like that that it only made her think that he would benefit from having something else, something that couldn't and wouldn't abandon him, to focus on.

But then the question became what kind of tiny animal?

The second she stepped into the pet store, she realized she would have tons of little creatures to choose from. And right off the bat, she crossed anything resembling an amphibian off of her imaginary list. Her own distaste for them aside, things with scales at the pesky tendency of coming with salmonella and all sorts of nasty things that House didn't need to be exposed to.

And a bird was out too, she immediately realized. Because even though it was undoubtedly cleaner than some sort of nasty frog, birds made high-pitched noises.

And, to be perfectly honest, birds just weren't cute enough, in her mind, anyway, to cancel out the fit House would throw over that.

So that pretty much left something small and furry, something like he'd once had… whatever the hell that was.

Walking directly towards the back of the store where little mammals were, Cuddy paid no attention to the brightly colored fish swimming along her left or the chirping finches that were on the far right. Those animals were not only not what she wanted, but in the back of her mind was the thought that House's phone call hadn't gone the way she'd hoped it would go. And even if she wouldn't have minded looking at all of the creatures within the pet store under normal circumstances, she knew she had to hurry up and get home.

Unfortunately, as she came to stand in front of the rows upon rows of rodents and furry creatures, she realized that it wouldn't be quite that simple; there were too many choices, the days of her youth, where "small mammals" constituted an aquarium of teddy bear hamsters, long gone. Rabbits and rats, mice and chinchillas, gerbils, hamsters, and even hedge hogs – dozens of tiny little things scurried around the clear cages, making her decision that much harder.

Running her tongue along her teeth, Cuddy went from cage to cage to see which type of animal she thought would be best. Obviously hedgehogs were out; anything that House could use as a weapon was out on principle.

Period.

Although he would probably get a kick out of stabbing her with a hedge hog, the mental picture alone enough to make him, laugh, she was note quite so amused at that prospect.

So that was a definite no. As were the gerbils, because knowing House, he would spend at least the next two days making jokes that she had no interest in hearing.

Of course, House didn't exactly strike her as a gerbil fan – or a hamster fan, for that matter. They were just… too small, too delicate and cute for his taste.

But as she moved along the rows of animals, Cuddy began to see that she might be forced to choose one of those. The mice were clearly sick, a thin white one slumped over (probably dead) the little wheel in the cage. Most of the other mice didn't seem to notice, much less care, their brown, white, and black paws scurrying over their fallen brethren as though nothing were wrong.

And the few who did pay any attention to what was going on were chewing on the poor dead mouse's ears. Watching them nibble away as though cannibalism were perfectly normal, Cuddy immediately turned her back to them.

Sure, House would enjoy knowing that she'd gotten him a mutant animal that liked to eat other mice that probably came from the same litter as it. But, truthfully, she wasn't sure she could stand to be in an apartment with one of those mice, the fear that she would wake up with it nibbling on her toes too powerful to ignore. And besides, even if she weren't thinking of herself, something had killed the dead mouse to begin with, and she had no intention of bringing whatever it was that it had had into the apartment.

So moving along, she told herself with a frown… up next were the rats, who looked surprisingly sprightly. They were running around but not in the frantic, dizzying way the mice had been. And unlike street rats, these were not a dull shade of brown; nor were they the same white that the hospital's lab rats always were. Instead, they were mainly brown and white combined, except for a few exceptions – like the two tan ones hanging around the back of the cage.

Their light brown fur the color of sand, they were quieter than the rest of the rats. But they were still active and looked healthy, which was pretty much her criteria for choosing a pet.

And the more she looked at them, the more she seemed to recall that the animal House had had was a rat. Her hand rubbing aimlessly against her chin, she thought she remembered Stacy telling her about a feral rat that House had taken from her home.

The cage in the apartment was certainly big enough for a rat, although too small for some sort of chinchilla (which Cuddy doubted he would have bought anyway).

A smile appearing on her face, she knew, in that moment, that she was going to get House a new pet rat. She had her eye on the chubby (but hopefully not pregnant), tan rat in the back. It was, in her mind anyway, the cutest rat in the cage, and, although the tag on the plastic said that rats did best in pairs, this particular animal seemed completely uninterested in its roommates. Which worked well, considering that there would, knowing House, be times when he was uninterested in giving or unable to give the rat tons of attention.

And that fact firmly planted in her mind, she knew she was making the right choice.

Spinning around on her heels, Cuddy began to look around for a worker to come help her. There was a lock on the cage – not that she really wanted to reach into a tank full of rodents and grab the one she wanted, of course.

But the only person she saw who looked like an employee was currently being bombarded by a nervous parent and her screaming, whining child. In fact, glancing at the mother-daughter pair now, Cuddy was surprised that she hadn't even noticed how loud the girl was until this very moment.

Then again… Cuddy was used to House, who was louder, whinier, and more childish than any actual child she'd ever met. So perhaps it really wasn't any surprise that she hadn't paid attention to the brat who was crying loudly for the black-and-white rabbit, the only rabbit for sale apparently, that she so desperately needed to have.

Watching the scene in front of her take place, Cuddy could tell she wasn't the only one now paying attention to the mother, daughter, and the timid employee who seemed afraid of saying the word, no. The boy wearing the company uniform couldn't have been more than twenty, his cheeks still full with baby fat and eyes wide with innocence. And he was clearly no match for the ten year old throwing a fit, because, although he looked like he wanted to say, "No, you can't have this rabbit," he wasn't actually saying that. His voice squeaky, he simply kept hedging.

Over and over he repeated, sounding unsure of himself, "I'm not sure that a rabbit is a good choice…"

Which made the little girl respond, "But I want it!"

And that made the mother continue to press, "Well, she wants it, so that's what we're going to buy."

Waiting impatiently for a good ten minutes, Cuddy was quickly becoming fed up with the situation. Since there were no other sales people around, she had to wait for this boy to effectively deal with this family. But the longer he took, the greater the need to get back to House seemed. Because the longer she waited, the more her mind wandered to him.

The image of him being both angry and depressed after his attempt to talk to Wilson filled her head. Overwhelming worry gripping at her consciousness, Cuddy suddenly felt as though standing here, waiting for this teenager to finally cave in and give the little girl what she wanted, was pointless.

Yes, it had been part of a deal to get House a present, but wasn't the more important thing keeping him safe – if not content with new things to play with, she asked herself. Wasn't watching this fight unfold a bad decision on her part, especially when she could be in her car right now driving back to him?

The questions went unanswered, because it was at that moment, when she thought the word, safe, that she realized that it would soon be time for House to take his medication.

And God help her if she returned late for that.

Realizing that things wouldn't end well if she didn't leave soon, Cuddy rolled her eyes and stalked towards the employee. Just as the mother was about to repeat once more that the rabbit had to be hers, Cuddy interrupted, "I hate to interrupt, but I think I can settle this argument." Turning to the mother, she placed a hand on the stranger's forearm. "I know you had hoped to take that rabbit home for your daughter, but the thing is I already called ahead to buy the rabbit. So… I'm sorry, but she's mine."

The mother responded with a slightly open mouth, a sound of disgust and annoyance caught in the back of her throat (which earned her a pointed glare) while the store employee looked at her kindly. And without any exaggeration, he literally sighed with relief, reaffirming to Cuddy that she had made the right decision by intruding.

But only the little girl immediately spoke up. "You were looking at the rats," she pointed out snottily. "You don't want the bunny."

Gritting her teeth, Cuddy had no time for this, and she certainly had no desire to get into a fight with a child. "I was looking at the rats in the hopes that he," she said with a sharp glance to the employee, "would do this job. Unfortunately, he's too afraid to tell you no, so I'm doing it. Now if you could pack up my rabbit, that would be really nice," she told the teenage boy.

Although she hadn't exactly thought this plan through all the way, if she had, Cuddy understood that it was at this point that the family was supposed to turn away and leave, insulting her as they went.

But that was not what happened.

Instead of skulking away, they stood there and watched her and the employee. Which meant that Cuddy could do nothing but helplessly stand there and take the rabbit (in a cardboard carrier, of course) and all of the supplies necessary to raise a rabbit. And within a matter of minutes, instead of the rat she wanted, she was now purchasing the black and white bunny.

For House.

As she headed back to the car, a bag filled with food, a real cage, and other assorted items in one hand, the cardboard cage in the other, she couldn't help but wonder just how much he would hate the gift. And there was no doubt in her mind that he would hate it. She hoped for the best, but clearly rabbits with their cute, twitching noses and House didn't exactly go well together.

Although, she thought optimistically, he would appreciate the fact that she'd essentially stolen the animal from a little girl. That alone would be the reason he kept the bunny – just so nobody else could have it.

And Cuddy supposed that that was fine with her. Having held the rabbit in her hands while the teenager had retrieved a cardboard cage, she could attest to creature's timidity; it had squirmed a little in her hands as she'd taken in its interesting appearance. Black ears and eyes, a few black spots along its back, and something that resembled a tiny black mustache above its mouth – it was the cutest little rabbit she'd ever seen but not the friendliest. It hadn't tried to bite her thankfully, but the poor girl (or boy, although she was going to assume it was a girl) had nearly wriggled right out of Cuddy's grip.

As she loaded the car with the new supplies and rabbit, Cuddy vaguely realized that it would be a problem if the bunny were to get loose in the apartment.

Well, not now, she told herself; if the rabbit hopped out of House's arms, she would be there to hunt it down. And frankly, considering their living situation didn't look like it would be changing anytime soon, she knew it wouldn't be an issue.

At the moment anyway.

But then, maybe it would never be a problem. She'd bought some sort of pen to put the rabbit in for exercise. And in any case, even after she moved out, she knew that any problem with the animal would have House calling her to fix it. Of that she had absolutely no doubts.

Sighing for maybe the fiftieth time that day, Cuddy drove out of the parking lot. As she glanced down to the car clock, she realized that she probably had enough time to stop to get the sandwiches – although she would have to hurry in order to get back before House needed his medication.

Her foot instinctively pressed down harder on the gas pedal, the car lurching forward unceremoniously. The sudden movement was one she'd anticipated, was one the rabbit had not. Obviously, because as Cuddy drove along the high way, she could hear, above the soft, hushed sounds of the wind, the little pitter-patter of the rabbit hopping inside the cardboard cage.

Quickly Cuddy darted her eyes to the floor of the front, passenger-side seat, where she'd placed the animal. The carton was still holding up, she thought thankfully, her eyes rolling at her own nervousness over the pet potentially escaping.

But at the same time, part of her tried to justify, in her head, her concern. The unbidden image of what would happen if the animal had gotten loose came to her at that moment. The idea of her trying to drive a car with a rabbit hopping about was ridiculous at best, horrifying at worst, and although House would, no doubt, enjoy the idea of her crashing her car and dying because of the creature, she didn't find it quite so amusing.

Her worry was for naught, however, the rabbit staying exactly where it was for the remainder of her trip. Which, for a brief second, made her feel nothing but relief.

Until she was outside of the apartment and remembering just how bad things could be.

Carefully setting down the cardboard box, Cuddy tentatively unlocked and opened the front door.

She could see House immediately, even from the hallway. He was sitting on the couch in the living room. The TV was off; there was no music playing, no book in his hands. He was just sitting there – he didn't even look up at the sound of the noise she made.

So she announced her presence with an "I'm back."

But he didn't reply or look her way, much to her dismay.

Picking the cage up once more, she shuffled her way into the apartment. "Did you call your mother?"

His response was a cold "Yes."

"Good," she told him with a nod of her head, moving to stand in front of him. Placing the food and pet supplies on the coffee table in front of her, she gently, strategically placed the rabbit on the floor so he wouldn't immediately see it. "Did you call Wilson?"

Of course, Cuddy already knew the answer to that. But if she didn't ask that question, then House would know that there was a reason for that. And he would very quickly deduce that Wilson had called her, and if their friend had done that, then House would know that Wilson was furious.

And she didn't want him to know that, because it would make House never want to take her advice ever again. So the only choice she had was to pretend not to know what had happened.

Again, he gave her a cold answer. "Yes."

She responded by giving him an imploring look, but he didn't say any more. Hoping to get more out of him than a one-word answer, she pressed further. "And how did that go?"

"How do you think it went?" His voice was a low growl, the words not entirely audible but the anger behind it crystal clear.

"Well… I'm guessing by the tone of your voice that it didn't go well," she said diplomatically.

House sneered at her. "Of course it didn't go well. I know, in your world, Wilson and I would have made up before dancing on a cloud of rainbows and unicorn dreams," he snapped. "But, apparently, in the real world, when you kill someone's girlfriend, they tend not to want to speak to you. Who knew?"

"I'm sorry," she told him honestly. "I… truly thought that he would talk to you. When I spoke to him last, I really thought that he wanted you to –"

"You were wrong," he interrupted.

She frowned deeply. "I know."

He glared at her accusingly. There was no kindness looking back at her, his bright blue irises glassy and hardened. "You wasted my time."

Despite the fact that she didn't want to feel this way, Cuddy couldn't stop the guilt from tugging at her senses. Her voice suddenly sounding strangled when she spoke, she began to say, "I wasn't…"

But he interrupted, incorrectly completing the sentence, "Thinking? Of course not," he said loudly. "Why would you do that? Sit on your ass all day… looking for ways to screw with me – that's what you do," he accused angrily, his voice loud enough to aggravate his tinnitus, she thought. "I said calling Wilson would be a bad idea. But why listen to me, right? I mean, sure, I'm the one with the brains, even if they are all messed up, but lets not listen to me. Lets just do whatever the hell you want."

House was shouting at her at this point, and though she had long been victim to his temper (and had known that she was probably coming back to this), it still hurt to hear what he was saying. Calmly, Cuddy told him, "That's not true. You know that's not –"

"Just shut up," he snapped back, not giving her a chance to say anything else. "I don't…" His voice trailed off, emotion that she thought was sadness getting caught loudly in the back of his throat as he exhaled. Swallowing hard, House told her, defeat coloring every word, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Cuddy nodded her head in understanding. Truth be told, she couldn't help but feel a little relieved at the fact that he didn't want to continue to discuss this, because part of her feared that talking about this anymore would only lead to more fighting. And frankly, despite easily fitting into the "masochist" mold, she did not want to keep this conversation going, did not want to hear anymore about how she'd screwed everything up. "All right," she agreed in earnest.

Looking him over for a second, she waited for him to say something in response. But when he didn't, she told him, "I think it's time for your medication."

"Wonderful."

"Stay here," she instructed gently. "I'll go get you a glass of water and bring everything to you."

When he didn't say anything, she took that as his way of consenting and disappeared into the kitchen. As she retrieved a cup from one of the glass cabinets, she hoped that his mood would improve by the time she got back. Rationally, of course, she wasn't expecting that; it wasn't reasonable to expect such a dramatic shift, but she did hope for one nonetheless, practically praying that whatever he was feeling would recede enough so that he could at least pretend to enjoy the rest of his birthday.

Returning to him with drugs and drink in hand, she said in a hushed voice, "Here you go." He took the proffered items but didn't reply. Which made her ask him as he started to swallow the pills, "Do you want to see what I got you?"

Shrugging he answered, "I guess." And although he was basically saying yes, although he'd consented to this entire plan, there was nothing in his voice that suggested that he cared one way or the other.

Feeling a headache beginning to develop, Cuddy absent-mindedly rubbed her forehead. "All right, well, I stopped by the deli on the corner and got Reubens for –"

"Gimme," he interrupted insistently, his free hand making grabbing motions.

"Okay…" Well, she told herself, as she reached down for the bag on the coffee table that had the sandwiches, at least, she'd gotten that much right.

But the thought gave her little comfort; the second she held the sandwich out for House to take, he warned her, "There better not be any pickles on –"

"There aren't," she tried to tell him, although the look on his face said he didn't believe her. "I told them that I didn't want –"

"Yeah. I'm sure that worked. People always do what you say," he pointed out sardonically.

Her eyes narrowed on him. "Just take a bite, all right? And if there's a problem with it, I'll pick off the pickles myself," she offered.

House scoffed at the suggestion. "Taking them off won't work. Everything will still taste like pickles. Which is why you have to make sure they don't put them –"

Repeating herself, Cuddy ordered him through gritted teeth, "Just take a bite. Try it before deciding I've screwed up."

Looking at her for a second, House seemed hesitant to do what she wanted. God forbid he hear an order and behave himself. But eventually, his hunger apparently won out, his hands eagerly tearing the parchment paper away from the warm sandwich.

His teeth tore away a bite nearly too big for his mouth, forcing him to chew as loudly and obnoxiously as he was in every other aspect of his life. As he did so, Cuddy watched him like a hawk, her eyes narrowing on him expectantly.

And House hated to admit it, but, damn it, she did get the fine art of ordering a Reuben right. Swallowing greedily, he didn't want to actually say the words out loud – you did a good job – but he wasn't going to risk telling her the sandwich sucked, leading to her taking it away from him. So he settled for a more neutral "It'll suffice."

But she wasn't going to let him only say that. "If you don't want it, House –"

"I'll eat it," he interrupted, trying to infuse his voice with irritation, as though the idea of eating the sandwich were being forced upon him. And going a step further, he made sure she wouldn't feel satisfied at the thought of getting something right; because she'd so royally screwed up by demanding that he call Wilson, House didn't think she had any right to pat herself on the back. "I'm assuming there's more to this than a Reuben," he told her snottily. "Or maybe I should say… there better be."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Of course there is." She began to rummage through the plastic bags she'd placed on his coffee table. The noise of her rustling echoed inside of his ears, coaxing the tinnitus back to its full force.

"Please, feel free to take your time and make as much noise as you can."

She didn't respond to the jab, which he kind of expected. Because he might have been in a bad mood, and yes, he might have been taking it out on her, but if he knew one thing for certain, it was that they both could agree that this was entirely her fault. So thank whatever the hell God who didn't exist for giving her some brains not to fight back at the moment; she wouldn't have won.

Of, course, if she'd really had any brains at all, she would have been smart enough to know to back off of the call-Wilson thing. And then none of this would have happened, he thought angrily. But she hadn't had the smarts to do that, hadn't backed off of him, and now he was furious with her and himself for picking up the phone, for putting himself in a position to be rejected.

The bitter thought making his stomach clench futilely, it was one that was abruptly shoved to the side when Cuddy told him, "I got cupcakes for –"

He grabbed the plastic container with the brown and white treats inside, nevertheless interrupting, "Weren't you the one saying yesterday that sugar was –"

"Yes," she confessed, speaking over him, forcing him to shut up. "But it is your birthday, and the cakes are low in sugar, and, considering I didn't want to hear your complain about food anymore, I went ahead and got them."

It took him a second to think of something to say, a small smile appearing on her lips the longer he remained silent. "Fine," he replied hostilely. "But I'm eating both of them."

She smirked. "Good, because I got both of them for you."

Outwardly, he didn't say anything, reveal anything; he simply took another bite of his sandwich. But inwardly, House had to fight the desire to strangle her. Because, although part of him really didn't want to hurt her, another hated it when she outmaneuvered, outthought him – like she had done here. Because the fact of the matter was this: he was comfortable being the smart one; he'd said he was the one with the brains, and ninety-nine per cent of the time, that was true.

But when she did something truly remarkable, when she outsmarted him… it bothered him, more than anything else she was capable of. In those times, it made him feel… like he'd missed something, like he'd screwed up somehow. And given that part of him was absolutely sure that his genius was gone, that that part of his mind had died right along with Amber, he didn't appreciate Cuddy giving him any more evidence he didn't need.

"Is that it?" he asked, sounding not entirely unlike one of those future hookers MTV regularly featured on My Super Sweet 16.

Placing a hand on one of her hips in disapproval, she told him, "No, that's not it. But you could try being a little grateful."

House pretended to think it over. "And where would the fun in that be?"

She waited for a second to say or do anything, her way, he supposed, of hoping that he would get the initiative to say thank you. Which almost made him laugh out loud; she was acting like she was new at this.

But finally she rolled her eyes and moved on.

Sort of.

Instead of quickly moving along, Cuddy seemed almost hesitant then. "All right, well… I didn't know what to get you," she confessed quietly. "You wouldn't give me any hints, and I didn't… know what to do," she repeated, emphasizing the words with her stressed tone of voice.

He gave her a pointed look. "So what you're telling me is that you, what, got me a series of portraits of Taub… naked?"

Her nose automatically scrunched up in disgust.

Belatedly, she replied, "No. Definitely no." Picking up the cardboard box on the floor, she gently placed it on his lap. And it was then that he realized just how much the non-conversation with Wilson had been – was – bothering him. Because he hadn't even noticed that there was a box on the floor.

Which, under normal circumstances, wouldn't have been so odd, except that this particular box clearly had something alive in it. The cardboard wobbling slightly, House was suddenly very unsure of what she'd gotten him.

His hands bracing the box so that it wouldn't fall onto the ground, he told her seriously, "Please tell me this is your favorite vibrator and not an actual living creature."

She bristled at his words, which could only mean that there really was something alive in his hands. Again, she told him, "I didn't know what to get you. And… this wasn't my first choice," she warned. Her voice becoming high-pitched, the veins and sinew in her neck beginning to bulge, she was clearly becoming flustered. "But … there was this woman and her unbelievably bratty daughter and –"

"And I don't care," he told her simply.

Which was true enough; he didn't care what had possessed her to buy whatever it was that was in this cardboard box. If he liked it, he liked it. If he didn't, he didn't, and that, he told himself, was all that concerned him.

Of course, given the story she was trying to tell him, House couldn't help but believe that he would absolutely hate what was in the box. Because he understood that you didn't preface a gift like that if you knew it was going to be something the person loved; you only did that if you were sure that the receiver would hate it.

And that – the idea that Cuddy would have manipulated him into calling Wilson and then gotten him a crappy present just to screw him over – that made him furious. So much so that it didn't even matter what was in the box; he was going to hate it.

On principle, he was going to hate it, even if she'd randomly picked something he liked.

His hands shaking with anger as he pulled apart the slats that kept the box shut, he was surprised by what he saw – surprised and repulsed in equally strong measures.

A rabbit.

A goddamn rabbit.

He had called Wilson, and this was what she gave him. He had set aside his own judgment, had set himself up to hear the words, "I hate you," only to learn that Wilson didn't care enough to even say that. House had been the one to risk everything, and he'd been the one to lose a best friend.

And this was what she gave him.

Part of him, in that moment, realized that there was little she could have given him that would have countered the loss of Wilson. But at least if she'd gotten him something good, there'd be the knowledge that she understood him, that she could potentially get him the way Wilson once had.

That was what his plan had been about – to see just how able she was at that job. But instead of being anywhere near what he needed, she'd done this, making him feel as though he'd been used this entire time. And at that moment, as she looked at him expectantly, he hated her.

Grabbing the black and white rabbit in a manner to harsh to be considered kind, he yanked it out of the box. The dumb animal was in no harm, but it made the fluffy, little bunny equivalent of a scream. Bitterly, he asked, "Is this dinner?"

Cuddy's eyes widened in surprise. "N-no," she forced out in shock. "It's a –"

"A pet?" He pretended to sound surprised at the idea before shaking his head. "But I'm not exactly the kind of person who would own a rabbit. A poodle dyed hot pink, sure – I'd love one of those but a rabbit? Not so much." Cocking his head to the side, he told her, "On the other hand, I'd much rather eat a rabbit than a poodle, so –"

"You can't eat it," she insisted worriedly.

And that, the fact that she seemed to think he would kill the rabbit and eat it, piqued his curiosity. Just how little, he wondered, did she think of him?

As the rabbit wriggled around in his grasp, he supposed that he'd known she'd trusted him so little. She couldn't do her job if she inherently thought he were capable of always doing the right thing.

But in any case, her reaction… intrigued him, egged him on. In a very weird way, he wondered just how far he could push her before she would stop him. He wondered just where she would draw the line and how long it would take to get there.

And it was then that something inside of him seized hold. His head pounding, he couldn't pull himself back from the thought; he kept going.

"Don't be squeamish," House told her. Changing his hold onto the rabbit so that he held it by the neck, he said, "It'd be easy. Just snap the –"

"No!" Cuddy nearly shrieked, her mouth open in shock. "You… you can't –"

He eyed her curiously. "Why? It won't feel a thing."

Her voice was tight with emotion. "I didn't buy the rabbit so that you could… kill it." Her own gaze seemed intent on figuring out how fast she would have to move to grab the animal from him without him fighting back.

"You think I'm going to do it? You think I'm capable of that?" House squeezed the rabbit tighter. Looking down at it, he pretended to consider the matter. "I guess it would be pretty easy, wouldn't it?"

She shook her head violently. "House, stop it."

He smirked. "You do think I'm going to do it."

"I think you're… upset over Wilson and not thinking clearly because of the injury to your temporal lobe," she told him slowly, clearly struggling to find words that wouldn't piss him off anymore.

"Oh, I see," House replied bitterly. "So this has nothing to do with you manipulating me into doing what you wanted. This is just me being crazy."

Her voice was grave, and tears that had seemingly come from nowhere made her eyes look glassy in the light. "You are holding a small animal by its neck and talking about killing it. If you're mad at me…" She shot him an imploring look. "Then I'm sorry. I really believed that calling Wilson was the right thing to do."

House opened his mouth to say something, but she held up a hand stopping him. "I was wrong. I screwed up – I'll admit that. But what you're doing, what you are about to do… it's not rational. It's not reasonable. And if you were to look at what you're doing, you would know that this is crazy."

He didn't listen to her. "I'm not crazy."

"No," she told him in agreement. "You're not. But this is. Just look at what you're doing."

At that moment, he wasn't sure what made him look down, but later on he would be glad that he did. His gaze moving downward, he finally saw exactly what it was that she was seeing.

His hand was practically strangling the flailing animal, its eyes straining under the pressure. Its teeth were bared, its tiny bite trying desperately to sink into a bit of his skin to scare him off.

His eyes darting back to Cuddy, he could see the fear in every cell of her body; it was practically palpable, the knowledge that she truly believed he would kill this rabbit without thinking finally hitting him.

And looking down again at what he was doing, House couldn't deny it. If he didn't let go, if he didn't back off, if he didn't get control, he would strangle the small animal in his hands. Which would mean that he really was every bit the monster he feared Wilson saw him as.

It would mean that he had no reason to demand that Wilson, Cuddy, or anyone else be in his life.

His fingers immediately uncurled themselves at the thought, the rabbit plopping unceremoniously onto his lap before quickly hopping away in fear, its mainly white body moving out of sight at a steady pace. And that made Cuddy sigh in relief, though House himself could not feel anything other than disgust at his own behavior.

The rabbit hadn't been a good gift, but only because it now made him realize just how… horrible he actually was. All this time, he'd said that Wilson should hate him, but only part of him had truly believed that. For the most part, it had just been words, had just been something to say if not actually feel.

But now, he knew: he didn't possess enough redeeming qualities to make a friendship with him worth it. With all crap he pulled, there probably weren't enough redeeming qualities in the world to excuse his behavior. And glancing down at his hands (he didn't have the courage to look at Cuddy's face anymore), House also knew – he didn't have to kill the rabbit to be a monster.

He already was one.

End (10/15)