A/N: PIM stands for "people in medicine", I believe. "Harl" was half of "harlot". "gall" is a word that can be looked up in the dictionary.

House laughed. It was meant to be a derisive laugh, but was slightly longer than the average one was meant to be. He smiled pleasantly at the assistant, concealing the rum flask behind his stomach.

"Nope," he said over his shoulder, "this is a special sort of conference."

And he decided to leave that ambiguous.

She had the intractable urge to shove him off her desk; in fact, the tips of her fingers ticced upward to follow through on that want, but higher cognitive function halted them.

"He's just jealous," she ventured with a rascally tone, one gray eye slanted down to him, "he's usually the one on his back on my desk." It never hurt to cause that leg to twitch -- for entirely selfish reasons.

"Yeah," he continued in the same tone she had used, determined not to be put out. "You wouldn't believe the sums she pays me. But if you did, you might as well believe she was desperate. After all," he said, "I'm the cripple here."

How many times had that saved him? Uncountable; and he felt no shame in using it now. In fact, there was a button undone, and he felt himself obligated to peer through it.

He busied himself, with the distraction of the assistant, to write on a post-it, 'Who will level with whom? Who knows, who knows?' and shove it toward her. Then another, as he knew how deep it would get, 'You know, when I first met you, I thought you preferred girls.'

That Mont Blanc ink -- fine, quality ink that cost twenty-eight cents per penstroke -- whisked across Post-Its in that doctor's scratchy scrawl. She plucked the tool from his fingers and wrote on the second note: 'Likewise.'

A solemn, perfectly innocent (and undeniably chaste and boss-like) upward look as her capable assistant stammered his "goodnights" and backtracked into the foyer, nearly stumbling over his untied shoelaces.

Now she really did shove him. It wasn't enough to topple the man off of her desk, but it did rock him enough for her to seize a spatial gracenote and pluck a few files out from underneath him. "You'd be surprised at the turnover rate for assistants at this hospital."

He leapt up on his injured leg, and said and showed nothing. Tipsy.

"The second note," he said, "you do realise that it's more insulting for you, adds cred for me."

Content with saying this - as though it meant anything, that frat-boy mentality - he went back a couple of steps.

She monitored the skew of his feet, if nothing else for the mission of avoiding a row of curmudgeonly complaint should he go over. Her files now sport crumpled edges, courtesy of his lower back. She began the tedious process of straightening out what he'd bent.

"I'd be frugal with that," she said of his credibility, "it's harder to keep in stock for you than Vicodin."

House sat back down in the chair.

"It's harder to keep in stock for me because of Vicodin," he said, and swigged from the flask. Tapped a two-note tune on it. Then put it back down on the desk and looked at her. Waited with expectant eyes.

He really was one of the most irritating people she'd ever met. If his medical prowess hadn't rushed in to support his splenetic attitude, Cuddy would have soured on him a long time ago.

Her throat vibrated with a discordant rumble: the kind that signaled to another party that the person in question was quite done with the conversation and would prefer to move on to other activities. She nudged open the center desk drawer and retrieved a box of paper clips, fitting the little bits of coiled wire over some of the thicker files and papers. A slow, put-upon upward glance to the flask -- and then to him.

"I have to drive home, House."

"So do I," he said, "and my transport's more dangerous than yours." He mouthed his 'I win' to his hands. "Not that there's much reason to go home."

This was said as afterthought; looking toward the ceiling, he began to play with the corner of a file, and then with another of her expensive pens. He decided that anyone who actually purchased a pen over five dollars was either fooling themselves as to the quality or completely pretentious.

The flask remained on the desk, and House liked the prudish way she kept looking at it. "By the way, that two hours deal expires at midnight."

She thought about telling him that she could get her luxury vehicle up to one-hundred-and-twenty on the straightaway just outside Trenton, but that would give him kindling for his I Told You You're Not As Good As You Claim To Be bonfire.

She was imperceptibly stung when he tossed off the casual comment about her feeble social life -- and its implied lack of a romance category -- but she knew that he was even more aloof than she was. She rationalized it by making an effort, which was more than could be said of him. More rationalization now as she tried to sketch out the liabilities of bowing to his compromise.

She rubbed an earlobe between her thumb and forefinger, resting her temple against a spread of knuckles. "Why midnight?" A tired question posed with an even less enthusiastic demand for an answer.

House shrugged.

"Seemed the thing. Like executions at dawn. And that's one swig, remember - fair, come on. Though if you want to add more sips for more hours, I'm open to negotiation."

She was weakening - there was a slightly hopeless expression in her face and position. He just kept up with the staring eyes and the intently lined brow. Amazing, the things one could achieve with fair negotiation and patient persuasion. Can't always have the nasties in the open. Hey; it worked for Iago.

Whenever he was intently concentrated, his hands always fiddled with something, played some game. While he watched her, he tore a paper slowly into little bits. He wondered if this was a nervous habit, or just to keep the brain moving. Leaned toward the latter. Without self-bias? Yes, still the same. Otherwise it would mean he was consistently nervous.

"Obfuscation's your real addiction," she observed, licking the tip of her finger to better sort and collate, "you gonna' tell me that the green bicycle rides at midnight now?" He liked to manipulate people; almost as much as she liked to undo his manipulations. He liked pulling the puzzle apart. Cuddy liked putting it back together.

"What's more annoying: obfuscation or avoiding answering questions?" House frowned, scattered bits of paper. "Especially when I know that you want to show me that you can drink if you want to, but are just too sensible to do it. And that's why Cuddy's Cuddy."

A thought came to him. He perked a little.

"Did they call you Lisa Cruddy at school? I so would have started that."

The janitorial staff will think that she'd had a coniption fit: the scattered files, the confetti of paper on the floor. When she left at the end of each day her files were at measured ninety-degree angles, not a Horton's Who worth of dust to be found anywhere on her desktop.

She squared off a sheath of papers and flashed a smug expression: "Only the ones who were jealous of consecutive 4.0 grade-point-average," she said, brushing a bit of hair from her high brow.

If he was trying to incite her to drink through insult he was in for a sorry disappointment. She'd gotten that vaccination, too.

"Oh, bleagh. Spew," House muttered. "I would have killed you in school. And not out of jealousy, either, 'cause I'm a genius." He mimicked her smug expression with a slightly effeminate slant. "I could have predicted you'd overshoot doctorhood immediately. You've got the pompous admin thing right down pat. If you weren't in the high chair, you'd be restless forever. A woman's work is never delegated, is it?"

Pleased with his creative use of Basil Fawlty, he prodded at the flask. "Drink now, or forever hold your peace."

If proverbial feathers were ruffled, Cuddy didn't show any sign.

She knew she'd held her own in undergrad: six nights a week spent bent over her desk with her nose in a biology book, the other night piously dedicated to passing out the shabbat wine at Beth El temple. A flawless completion of the MCATs solidified her entrance into the medical school of her choice and she had risen quickly through the echelon of academia.

House, whose admitted genius came without so much as a raised finger, had an insoluble knack for pointing out said genius at every opportunity. Cuddy had reconciled with the idea that she might not have been as intuitive a doctor as he was, but she was certainly no less cagey.

Proud. That's what she was, and she emphasized that point by tapping a manicured nail on the desktop. "I know I run the risk of sounding like a broken record, House, but women do like to be on top."

"You more run the risk of sounding like a feminist, which is even worse," House's expression was suddenly one of theatrical fear. He had the eyes of a rabbit gazing at doom. "Or making some sort of euphemism, which is sort of hot, but creepy if you are a feminist."

He stared at the desk for a moment, concentrated, running the involved fuzzy logic of the sentence through his mind. Nodded. "Yep. That's it."

His forehead settled, and he sat back with an exhale. He was tired, too, but then again, he always was. Getting everywhere involved a lot of, well, dragging himself about. Perhaps he could learn to walk on his arms; that was almost as neat as a limp and a cane. But not as strangely attractive.

Her expression bothered him. Something about it made him want to say something. And that something came to him in a beat.

"Hey..." he looked up again. "Have you realised that I'm not your boss purely from personal preference? I think that's pretty cool." He winked at her. "Plus, I could keep my rum and do it."

His weakness -- well, one among the many -- was that he frequently led himself down paths of perpetual pontification and monologue. Which was all well and good, as it kept him focused on a singular topic (if not her blouse than something else) and vulnerable to surprise.

Which is precisely why Cuddy chose that moment to snake her hand across the desk and seize the flask. The cap had already been courteously removed so there was nothing to prevent the immediate ingress of its contents down her throat. She held two fingers beneath her chin as she imbibed -- not one sip, not two -- the entire remaining contents of the thing.

House, surprised out of his next ramble, kept very still as he watched her drinking. Very still, as though movement would ruin it all somehow. God, he was good. He was so good. He was sort of disappointed it had only taken a few prods at the same old tender patch to bring this about, though. He had hoped that something more inventive might do the trick.

No complaints, though. Cause and effect. He waited very expectantly for her face when she came up, hoping she wouldn't immediately mention anything about sips to hours. Then his pleasure would be complete.

She passed the worst of the post-drink facial expressions on to the ceiling, righting the keel of her balance after a few moments of brain-versus-stomach. Sips to hours, nothing. She spoke hoarsely around the lingering liquor, rattling the empty flask:

"I believe I own you now."