"It may be your last chance, House. I would go for it."
"You would, Wilson."
"No, I have. PPTH is a good hospital, despite what you may think."
"What I know."
"She's a good dean. She's offering you the deal of a lifetime. An endowed chair, budget for three fellows, no lecturing schedule. No quota on the number of patients you have to see to keep the chair. You publish one paper or speak at one conference a year. This, after you've been sacked by four other hospitals."
The conversation came back to house as he slept peacefully in his office. Stacy had pushed the idea as well. Anything to end the endlessness of House's desolation.
"She's doing it out of guilt. Her last attempt to rehabilitate me. To fix me. Well, sorry, what's broken is pretty unfixable."
"It's an endowed chair. With the string attached that you fill the chair. It's not her. It's a grateful patient. You saved his granddaughter."
"Niece."
"Whatever. The point is…"
"I know what the point is. I don't want someone's gratitude. I did my job. That's all."
"It won't kill you to do this. Hey, we can have lunches. Give the nurses grief…" House had glared at Wilson in response, but accepted the post anyway.
House's eyes fluttered open. The office was dark, except for his desk lamp and the glow of his computer screen across the room. How long had be in out? Squinting at his wrist, he noted the late hour. After midnight.
"Working late?" His office door opened as Cuddy walked in.
House stretched, yawning. His hand instinctively going to his right thigh and massaging it. "And why are you still here?"
"Donor reception. I was on my way home. Someone told me they saw your lights still on. I didn't know you had a new case." House noticed her attire. She was wearing a turquoise silk halter dress.
He saw no point in lying. "I fell asleep reading." Cuddy noticed the pool of unopened mail surrounding the base of the chair.
"I see. Must be a fascinating article. How long were you out?" He considered the question.
"Maybe six hours."
"How have the dreams been?"
"None this time. Not that I was aware of, anyway. I think I dreamt about you for a minute before I woke up." Her eyebrow quirked, waiting for the punch line. None was forthcoming. House struggled to sit and get up.
"You OK?"
"Just a little sore from the physio." And a little stiff from sleeping in an unnatural position for six hours. Cuddy extended her hand.
House glanced sheepishly at Cuddy, accepting her assistance, wishing for a very brief moment that his cane had been nearby. He was not accustomed to getting out of the deep and comfortable chair without its aid.
"I need some air. Step out on my balcony with me?" Her hand was still gripped in his.
"This a come-on?" He dropped her hand, walking out onto the terrace, sitting hard on the chair.
"I never thanked you, Cuddy."
"For what? For this? You did." She sat in the other chair, facing him. "I didn't do anything."
"You saved my life. In a lot of ways." Cuddy was getting concerned. This was bordering on maudlin, and undecidedly un-Houselike.
"What the Hell is going on with you? This was your procedure. Your notes. Or rather the Germans'. You don't remember?" She had misunderstood him.
"No. Not this. For everything. For creating this job for me…"
"I didn't…"
"I know you did."
"House, I know what's happened…with the Ketamine, the shooting…has been…must've been…be emotional for you. I can't begin to understand what you're going through right now. But I didn't…" He knew she was lying and he loved her for trying to keep the illusion.
"House, for what it's worth, you've saved this hospital millions more than you've cost it. Lawsuits unfiled for lives saved. You're relentlessness with those sick babies…that epidemic last year. If you hadn't…"
"I do my job."
"And I do mine. No thanks required or sought. I'm no different than you in that respect."
"And in others…vive la difference!" She touched his face, sending a chill down his spine, while creating other sensations elsewhere. "Cuddy, I…"
"House…" She was slightly high from the cocktail reception, emboldened by his mood, aroused a newly perceived gentleness in his eyes and this sudden vulnerability. "Not right now, but after you've recovered completely. Would you consider…? Could you see yourself being…" No, she thought. This wasn't right. Not now. Cuddy reddened, pulling her hand away, standing. "I'd better go."
House regarded her. He was fairly certain about what she was trying to ask him. "I told you I'd help with your biological clock, if that's what…" He stood along with her. Still flustered she began to flee back into the office. "Cuddy. I could use a lift home. I'm not sure I'm quite alert enough for my bike. I'm still pretty tired. Would you mind."
She smiled at what she was pretty sure was a noble gesture, gallantly changing the subject, putting her more at ease. This was different. But then she remembered that evening, House and Wilson leaving the hospital after House had figured out the whole baby thing. She was sure that House would have gone for the jugular. Exposing the whole thing to Wilson and then the entire hospital would know. But he hadn't done that. He had said nothing to Wilson. Kept her confidence, even when she had not asked him to, not expected him to.
The short drive back to 221B was quiet. House noticed that Cuddy's driving was slightly erratic. "I think you could use a cup of black coffee before you try driving again. Wouldn't want to crash this beautiful Lexus. That would be a terrible crime."
"No. I'm fine."
"I grind my own beans. Well…I don't grind them myself. Coffee maker does though. Wilson hooked me on it when he was residing with me. I made him leave me the fancy coffee maker when he moved out as rent." Cuddy smiled. She knew it was dangerous. Going in with him. She realized it was only coffee, but her hormones were raging. She was slightly drunk and she quite unexpectedly found herself very attracted to Gregory House.
She watched him as he switched on lights around the apartment. His gait was better, even without the cane. The limp was there and she suspected that he wasn't going to be running any marathons…or even long walks in the park. But it was better. And it seemed to her that he was OK with it. His whole mood; his entire demeanor was different. She wondered how much was being newly pain-free and how much had to do with the shooting. She really didn't know. Nor, at this moment, care.
"Coffee will be ready in a few minutes."
"Play me something."
"I'll wake the neighbors. We have an agreement. They don't talk to me; I don't play piano after 1 a.m."
"Play softly."
"Yeah. Right. Then you'll fall asleep on my sofa and in the morning accuse me of taking advantage of you." Cuddy smiled.
"I wouldn't do that. Fine. Play me something on your guitar." House sighed, removing the Dobro from the wall. He sat next to Cuddy, picking up a small glass tube sitting atop the piano on the way. He retuned the strings and began a soft, slow blues, using the glass tube to ride across the strings up and down the neck of the ancient guitar. Cuddy closed her eyes, listening to the soft whine of the slide and House's intricate right-hand work across the guitar's belly.
House finished the piece, an old Blind Lemon Jefferson Delta Blues. He couldn't even remember the name of it. "I'll get you your coffee now."
"Where did you get it?" House shook his head, not understanding the question. The coffee maker? The guitar? His sense of humor?
"The music." She clarified. "I've met your parents, and they don't seem like the musical type to me. And you've got this incredible gift."
"Checking out my genes? That Mozart lie intrigue you?"
"Just curious."
"I don't know. Always been there. You're right about my parents. Of course, I'm not like them in oh, so many ways. Much to their considerable disappointment. And, no. I'm not adopted. Just different. Never wanted it to be that way. Believe me, it would have saved me a few black eyes and broken bones when I was a kid…"
"Were they…?" That would answer a lot of questions, if his father was abusive. This time House understood what she was asking.
"He didn't hit me. Neither did she. But an overly-curious loner whose grades set the curve in every class, every time without ever opening a book did not make me Mr. Popularity at too many air force base schools. Did make me a pretty good fighter, though, black eyes and broken bones notwithstanding." He looked away, willing his emotions away. The years had not made the pain any less. His memory was too acute, even years later. "I'll get that coffee now." He cursed himself for the disclosure. He was letting her get too close. He knew he couldn't do that. But he felt her inevitability and couldn't stop it either.
When he came back into the room bearing two mugs of coffee, Cuddy was wandering the room. "Is this real?" She pointed to the small Picasso lithograph on the wall.
"Signed and numbered and everything."
"It doesn't seem you. Like everything else here. The piano. The guitars. The books—I don't mean the medical texts. I mean the Yeats and Shakespeare; the biographies; the art. Is this who you really are?" It was an insane question.
"You forget the monster truck videos and the 'girls gone wild' DVDs."
"You are a man of eclectic tastes, it would seem." There was nothing left to say. Small talk didn't suit either of them. Quite suddenly, he was kissing her. Gentle, shy, testing kisses. They left her breathless.
He hadn't kissed anyone but Stacy in more than 10 years. Not really. He stopped, breaking away from her, knowing that he should. Waiting for the slap, the indignation and the outrage. But he had to know. Was this what she wanted? He was terrible at this game. That much he knew. This was the only way. He also suspected that she wasn't much better at it. Or else she wouldn't be looking for donors.
She couldn't think of anything rational to say. He seemed to be waiting. For what? For permission? That wasn't how it was supposed to work, was it? She stepped towards him, reaching her arms up and around his neck, drawing him into an embrace. There was so much wrong about this. But so much right.