Eames closed the second book on Lucian Freud and returned the books to the shelf exactly how she found them, then selected two more art books to curl up with and pass the time. She still didn't understand what on earth her partner found so meaningful about Freud's nudes and decided to chalk it up to a matter of taste rather than being too dense to see the thousand words the pictures were worth. One of her new selections had Impressionist paintings in it. Goren had dismissed Impressionists as 'too pretty', but he apparently wasn't above 'thinking about' them anyway. The Monet they had looked at in the museum was beautiful, even if it did turn out to be a fake.

Goren was still asleep on the sofa and his six-foot-four frame was going to have to stay there until he decided to move it himself. She suddenly recalled once thinking he was just a bit unstable and too erratic; she had put in a petition for a new partner. A scumbag lawyer tried to use that to discredit her and Goren during a trial. Nevermind that she had withdrawn that petition or that five years had passed since then. It was humiliating nonetheless. She had apologized to Goren outside the courtroom; he simply laughed it off. Thankfully it took more than one ill-timed petition to offend him. Neither of them have brought it up since.

She found some spare blankets and draped one over her partner. He didn't even twitch. She stole the pillows from his bed and made herself comfortable on the other end of the sofa. She opened up the book and found herself looking at a pretty Monet.


The traffic in New York was always murder, and for a while Nicole thought about hitting the road early to avoid it, but decided getting to New Jersey a few hours earlier wouldn't change anything. They were probably still holed up in the apartment, afraid of their own shadows. They would travel in pairs, double-check the doors and windows, jump at every creak in the floorboards. That was perfectly all right. Nicole was prepared to wait as long as necessary. Payback was payback, whether it be tomorrow or six months from now.

She checked the weather on her laptop, then turned on the television. One of those bizarre American movies about Marines and Vietnam was on. She laughed when the fat guy killed the drill sergeant, then blew his own head off.


House kicked Wilson's ass up and down the checkerboard four times without a shred of mercy. "Aren't you going to let me beat you sixty-four times, one for each square?" House asked, then had to duck when Wilson picked up the board and swatted it in his general direction.

"I've give up. You're the king," Wilson said before grabbing a Pepsi and going back to the living room.

"Pussy!" House chided.

"Yeah...yeah..."

Click. Another Hitchcock movie came on. After a while they all seemed the same to House. As Wilson settled back to enjoy the show House decided it was time to check on Cuddy.

He found her sprawled across the bed, still snoozing away. Other than her still broken nose and the fact that he might have to do some creative rearranging if she was still taking her half out of the middle when he decided to turn in, she was just fine and dandy. He turned to leave and had his hand on the doorknob when he heard: "Come here."

"Lisa?" House limped over to the lamp and switched it on. "Lisa, do you need something?"

She looked up at him with cloudy, dazed eyes and a weak smile. She was still flying a mile high on her pain meds. Holding out a hand, Cuddy repeated, "Come here."

House obliged and sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong, like a steel vice. It made him wince. She pulled him over until he lost his balance and was lying next to her.

"I want you with me, Greg," she murmured, and replaced sprawling across the bed with sprawling across his chest. It bordered on aggressive; her nails dug into his side hard enough to break the skin.

"I'm right here, Lisa," House replied softly and carefully, being extra diligent to say the right thing and avoid a medication-induced rampage. He reached up and gently stroked her cheek. That pleased her immensely. The nails left his skin and her hand met his.

"You'll always be with me?" Her voice had a dreamy sing-song lilt to it. She wasn't aware of a single word she was saying. A change of medication was in store for Cuddy as soon as possible. House made a mental note to flush her pills the first chance he got and to give her his bottle of ibuprofen or half a Vicodin if she really needed it. She sure as hell couldn't run the hospital in a zonked-out stupor while babbling incoherent nonsense. Her bosses might not take too kindly to that.

"Of course I will," he answered with a smile.

"Do you promise?"

"I promise." Even though he had a terrible track record of keeping his promises, House didn't feel guilty about making this one. He had no intention of leaving her and she wouldn't remember his pseudo-promise in the morning anyway.

"We belong together," she said in her dreamy voice, satisfied that she was one hundred percent correct.

"Yes, we do." No need to lie to her this time.

"You and me, together forever," she said, followed by a high-pitched giggle that made House think of teenage girls, slumber parties and teddy bears. He doubted that Cuddy had ever been this high before. It would be scary if she weren't safe inside his apartment and the medication wasn't wearing off.

"I'll love you forever," Cuddy murmured while snuggling closer. She rested her head on his chest and fell back asleep.

"I love you, too." No need to lie about that either, even though she couldn't hear a word of it.