Chapter 3: Forced Move

"What the hell do you think you're doing? How did you get in here?"

Cuddy had thought she'd had a headache before, but that had been nothing compared to this; and there was no hope for her at all, what with its double causes striking at exactly the same moment: the doorframe cracking her skull, the man before her a headache in himself.

House at least had the grace to look guilty. His grin was almost that of a sheepish boy whose hand had been caught in the cookie jar. Almost. More like a boy who knew that a pretense of guilt was more likely to earn him cookies and make her forget the sharp rap on the wrist. Cuddy had half a second to study him, only needed that long to notice how his forehead puckered, just perceptibly – and suddenly his face was too close to her own for her eyes to stay focused. She tried to back away.

The instant she moved, his hand was on the back of her head, tangling in her hair as it held her firmly in place. The swiftness of the motion startled her, and she tensed with a sharp intake of breath. She tried not to notice the friction of his fingers – sliding along her jaw to hold her chin squarely, tilting her face up to his – but it had been so long since he had touched her, since anyone had touched her, and his rough fingers on her smooth skin felt so right.

Awkwardly, still holding her chin, he hooked his cane on the doorknob and moved them both backward, his other hand searching the wall of the bathroom blindly. She reached around to hit the light switch for him, but he sternly headed her off. "Don't move."

She blinked as the light snapped on, then watched as his eyes flicked from one of hers to the other, studying each carefully.

So that's all this was then – a medical exam. She sighed, straddling the line between grateful and disappointed without much grace at all. And the blow to her head must have done more to her than she'd thought, because she only just remembered that any frustration now was completely justified, and he really shouldn't be here at all.

Slipping quickly and momentarily back on the side of grateful, she grasped at the first emotion she found there, anything to return them to something like normality and loosen the tension that was strangely tighter in this silence than in any of their thousands of shouting matches. Anger it was then, and she made sure to frost her voice. "I'm fine, House."

"Any change in vision? Ringing in the ears?" He examined her head where she had hit it, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"Yessss…" she hissed in pain as his thumb prodded a particularly tender area. And for half a second he looked worried, the emotion so foreign on his features that she would have stopped right there if irritation hadn't already pushed the rest of the thought forward. "I can see and hear someone who shouldn't be in my house at all. How did you get in here?"

"You asked that already," he chided, eyes gleaming. He was enjoying this, speaking to her as if she were a five-year-old. "Perseverating is – "

"Not an issue when you don't answer the damn question the first time," she snapped, finally jerking away from him.

"God, you're cranky. If you don't want people walking into your house, you should find a better spot to hide you key." He was still watching her eyes, and she turned her head to make it more difficult. "At least let intruders get a little creative. You take the fun out of everything."

House yanked her in front of him, and she turned and tried her best to scowl at him, but he pushed her forward, retrieving his cane from the doorknob. "C'mon – to the couch."

"What makes you think – "

"New head injury," he interrupted, pointing at her and then himself as he added, "old bum leg. If the human brain relocates to the thigh within the next few hours, you can be in charge. Until then, I'll be making all the important medical decisions."

"There's nothing medical about this, House. I'm fine."

"You'll be singing a different tune when rumors start circulating about how you got that bruise. Headboards can be so tricky…."

She didn't bother glaring at him; she had that expression of his memorized: eyebrows arched, lips twisted into a smile, and a faked innocence that was stellar, but still couldn't hide the devilish twinkle in his eye. She stalked into the living room, sinking gratefully onto the couch. Exhaustion had consumed her hours ago, and this splitting headache wasn't helping.

House had lingered in the living room archway, scrutinizing her. "When was the last time you ate anything?"

"House, honestly…."

"Either you're trembling in anticipation of our night together…." He grinned, shivering as if caught by a sudden chill. "Or your body's been deprived of its daily calorie intake. Your choice – I'm easy."

"There isn't going to be a 'night together,'" she ground out, narrowing her eyes. "And I had breakfast."

He shuffled towards her, stopping a few feet away. "Dry toast at six in the morning won't get you through the day, Cuddy. These puppies," he paused, pointing his cane at each of her breasts, so close the tip almost touched them, "need a snack every few hours to keep up their strength."

She stared at him, the comment not surprising her, simply not deserving any other response. It bought her time to compose her features. He always had her thisclose to laughter and he knew it. Sometimes it took all she had not to grin back at him. Usually, she failed; this time, she nailed it.

"I'm not hungry."

But he was already on his way into the kitchen, returning so quickly with a bag of frozen peas and a dish towel that he must have known right where everything was. She raised an eyebrow as he held both out to her, and he rolled his eyes, wrapping the peas in the towel and pressing them against her head. Her hand rested on his when she took the makeshift icepack from him, making it that much colder when he moved away.

"Have you ever considered that your inability to hold onto a man might have something to do with the fact that you starve all of them? There are at least seven vegetables in your fridge that I can't identify."

"Women aren't exactly lining up outside your door either."

He smirked, bouncing his cane on the floor and catching it. "There's no line if there's no maximum occupancy."

Resting her elbow on the arm of the sofa, she leaned her aching head on the frozen peas. His cane continued to thud. "What are you doing here, House?"

"I called for a consult."

He was still standing directly in front of her, towering, and she wasn't used to this view of him without the solid authority of a desk between them. "I sent Wilson."

"If I'd needed an oncologist, I could've called Wilson myself."

"You didn't need anyone." She sacrificed her comfortable position on the couch to reach out and snatch his cane as he let go of it again. He tried to grab it back, but she was too quick and slid it behind her. He looked almost impressed. "I checked in the clinic right before I left. You showed up half an hour after I spoke to you, – "

"Long wait for the elevator."

" – saw two patients in your first twenty minutes, and the nurses hadn't seen you since."

He paused, scratching the stubble along his jaw. "In some cultures that might be considered stalking."

"Says the man I caught breaking and entering."

"It's not against the law if you have a key," he pointed out, looking much too pleased with himself.

"Had." She held out her hand.

"Finder's keepers." And with that, he turned and headed into the kitchen, walking slowly without his cane.

"House…." She tried to force authority into her voice, cringing when it came out sounding more like a whine.

"Relax. I put it back where I found it."

"Right," she muttered. But he didn't hear her, and it didn't really matter anyway. She had every confidence that he could find at least six different ways into her house without the help of her spare key.

House returned with two bowls, slowly. She rose to help him, but retreated back into her seat at his warning look. Handing one bowl to her, he sat down with the other on the opposite end of the couch. They ate in relative silence: she sipped the soup in small spoonfuls; he slurped it down quickly. It was at once so strange and so natural, the two of them sprawled out on the couch, sharing dinner. There were at least a hundred moments every day when she wished she knew what House was thinking – and even without a patient's life hanging in the balance, this one topped them all.

"This is disgusting."

His voice startling her, she looked up from her bowl. "No one's making you eat it."

"Who taught you manners?" he asked, feigning astonishment, but probably not the disdain. "When someone offers you dinner, it's not nice to refuse."

"No one offered you anything."

"When you're eating someone else's dinner, same rules apply. Ask Wilson. And I didn't say it was inedible, just gross." His gaze jumped from her to her bowl as she put it down. "It's just plain stupid not to eat your own dinner. Especially when someone else slaved over it."

She raised an eyebrow. "Can opener still a little over your head?"

"And after I made you dinner…" he scolded, twirling his cane tauntingly and put it well out of her reach. She hadn't felt him pull it out from behind her.

"I'm tired, House." She tried to sit up straight, only managing to sink further back into the couch. "What are you doing here? Don't make me ask you again."

"Patient."

"Your PHP patient? Where's the file?"

"New patient. No file." House was balancing his soup spoon on his palm and she watched him warily. "Symptoms include pallor, tiredness, low-grade fever, lack of appetite – "

She caught on quickly, rolling her eyes. "I don't have a fever, and I'm not your patient."

" – and annoying stubbornness. Patient also suffered blunt force trauma to the head when attacked by a doorframe."

"Will you give it a rest?" she asked, scowling.

"Hey, I'm on your side." Doing his best to look serious and concerned, he leaned closer towards her. "Doorframes can be vicious – always waiting to strike when you least expect it."

She stood, was finally staring down at him. But without the added inches and conviction of heels and a well-tailored suit, or an entire hospital staff ready to jump at the snap of her fingers, her hard eyes and crossed arms meant next to nothing.

"Just under 100." He rose, was much too close to her, his voice teasingly flirtatious. "Your eyes are glassy."

"I don't have a fever," she repeated dumbly, starting to turn from him and wincing when the quick movement hurt her head. He eyed her. "Or a concussion. And you're leaving."

"Cuddy." House grabbed her elbow before she could move any further. And how could his tone move so quickly from teasing to this new softness? He popped open his bottle of Vicodin, dry-swallowing one himself and handing a pill to her. "You'll thank me later. Candy of the gods."

She took the pill from him without argument but didn't put it in her mouth. She was barely clinging to her faculties as it was, and there was no way she was taking anything stronger than Tylenol when he was still standing so close to her. "Goodnight, House."

It took until she was almost to the bedroom before she heard him behind her. They had skirted around the issue long enough, and although he seemed to be reveling in it, it was draining her. She stopped in the doorway, using the frame to support herself. His breath was hot on the back of her neck, the whisper of it trilling her through the spectrum of emotions, his hand pressing at her elbow just as she had settled somewhere between exhaustion and frustration sending her fluttering again. He'd had her emotionally on edge for months; it was a wonder she could function at all.

She steeled herself, because one of them had to and House was still touching her without saying a word. Unsought silence in House was unnerving. He always kept every conversation spinning in endless circles – sometimes she barely clung to the tail-end of what he was saying; others she swung back at him, making him respond to a reverse in orbit; and still others she focused him, but only rarely did this completely stop him in his tracks.

"What exactly do you think is going to happen if you follow me?"

Well... parts of that didn't work as well as I would have liked, so I apologize, but if I didn't get this out today, who knows when I'd be able to.

Thanks so much for all your lovely reviews, and to everyone for reading this far. What do you think – want to see more, or should I quit while I'm still somewhat ahead? I can wrap this up in the next chapter or so, but still have some ideas if you'd like me to stretch it out for awhile yet...