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I hope you still like those long chapters...

Chapter 7: Deflect

Cuddy's weariness had already pushed her past the breaking point, was evident in her heavy-lidded eyes, her slightly-slowed movements, the way her every reaction seemed a split-second off. His actions were slowly chipping away at the crumbling remains of her usually stalwart exterior. Inside the sterile hospital walls, she would have shoved him away before his fingers had even linked around her wrist, or laughed wryly, backing well out of his reach. Here and now, she didn't do anything at all, and that lack of motion was more jarring than any of a thousand more violent reactions might have been.

His fingers massaged their way up her arm in smooth, rambling circles, digging deep to soothe the overwrought muscles beneath the rough fabric of her suit jacket. He met no resistance – not a word, a breath, or even one of her patented glares – finally, painstakingly-slowly making his way to the juncture between cloth and skin, quickly jumping the divide and deftly slipping the tip of his thumb under her shirt, kneading the tension at the crook of her neck.

"Stop that…." She said it on the tail-end of a sigh, even as she dipped her head to allow him better access.

"Seriously?" he asked, chuckling, both hands rubbing her shoulders now, and she arched her back into his touch.

Cuddy didn't answer; didn't step away; didn't notice that his free hand had crept around to pluck the keys right from her hand.

"Listen." House leaned forward to whisper the words into her ear. He had no intention of letting her go anywhere, but she most certainly wasn't driving. "I can take you home on my bike. I can drive your car and end up staying at your place anyway. Or we can just stay where we are."

He had felt her tense at the mention of his motorcycle, the idea of it seeming to draw her back to alertness, and she stood straighter in his arms. When she spoke, her voice was just a shade shy of normal. "You're not even giving me a choice."

"There's always the motorcycle," he pointed out, teasingly.

"Not a chance in hell, House."

"What?" he asked, feigning disappointment and innocence, hands stilling. "You don't trust me?"

"On a motorcycle?" she scoffed, twisting her head and catching his eye. "God, no."

While he was almost certain that lack of faith extended to within ten feet of an MRI machine without supervision (as she had informed him only last week when the machine had "mysteriously" broken for the umpteenth time), there were still hundreds of thousands of other places. House grinned, the thought of her trusting him lingering hopefully in the air like the promise of sunshine after a break in the rain.

Strategically hiding her keys from view, he turned her so she stood in his arms peering up at him, her eyebrows two arched question marks but the question itself never voiced. She stumbled as he pushed gently against her, and he supported her weight as she regained her balance, before backing her slowly and carefully until her legs hit the piano bench. Tugging her down onto it, he bent over her to take a swallow of his drink before setting it back down.

He retrieved his cane from where it leaned against the piano and walked away, leaving Cuddy on the bench behind him. "Stay there."

"Where are you going?"

He turned in time to see the lingering effects of her frown, lips pursed, brow knit. She was in the midst of lifting his half-empty glass, the seltzer ignored.

"To see what I've got in my kitchen that isn't growing anything green and fuzzy," he responded, grinning as she took a sip of his scotch, her face curling into a grimace as the first swallow of alcohol burned her throat. "Don't have too much of that. You skipped lunch again – "

"I was in and out of meetings – "

" – and it's way past dinner."

" – most of the day, and chasing you around for the rest of it."

Of course she meant that as a reprimand, but his mind warped it easily into a not-so-naïve version of a first-grade boy and girl's playground game of tag – minus the cooties and exponentially multiplying the sexual tension. The girl could chase the boy all she wanted, but when it came down to it, the only threat she had was a sloppy kiss she would never give – the boy, in turn, could yank at her glossy pigtails, lift her pleated, checkered skirt and show the entire first grade that she still wore frilly baby underwear….

"The twins'll be sloshed," House continued, ignoring her excuses.

Cuddy folded her arms across her breasts, as if that could hide them from him or erase the inverted-color image that had long ago imprinted itself on his memory. Beaming wickedly, he turned back to the kitchen, making sure to jingle her keys loudly.

"House..." she groaned, and without turning, he knew she was staring at her empty hand in disbelief, searching futilely through her purse.

He parroted her tone perfectly. "Lisa…."

Without a moment's pause, she snapped back at him, vexation twinging her voice just slightly, the mimicry otherwise without fault. "Greg."

He let her keys fall on the kitchen counter with a metallic rattle that she must have heard, but she didn't come running to retrieve them. Opening a cabinet and examining its contents, he shouted back at her. "Macaroni."

"What?" Her reply was half laughter, her confusion evident.

He couldn't help the smile that washed over his face; not a smirk or a leer, but a genuine smile – an expression that his facial muscles had grown much more accustomed to within the past day. Pulling a box from the cupboard he slowly made his way back to her, holding out the box as a peace offering.

"You too high-class for some good old-fashioned macaroni? It's not that fancy whole wheat crap I found in your kitchen, but if it was good enough for Yankee Doodle…."

"I don't think he actually ate the feather," Cuddy responded matter-of-factly. "And you don't need to make me dinner."

"See, the girls and I had a little conversation this morning while you were sleeping. They agreed to put some extra effort into your cleavage if I promised to keep you fed." He paused to give her a chance to react, not surprised when she rolled her eyes to hide a grin. "There's no way I'm going back on a deal like that."

"You're impossible."

"You're one to talk."

With that, he lumbered back into the kitchen, not giving her any more time to argue. Finding a clean pot, filling it with water, and placing it on the stove, he immediately tore open the box of pasta and poured it in, turning on the burner.

"Aren't you supposed to wait for the water to boil?"

Her voice right in his ear startled him, but he didn't jump, his fingers intrinsically finding and curling around her bicep as he turned. "Do you always follow the rules?"

"Usually they exist for a reason."

"Yeah – to be broken," he jeered, stealing closer to her and smiling coyly. "I like to live dangerously. I don't preheat the oven either."

She returned his grin tiredly. "I'll call Evel Knievel and let him know he's got competition."

Her hair had begun to escape from the clip that had held it all so perfectly at the hospital, the strands framing her face. Her skirt and matching suit jacket were too stiffly formal so close to his jeans, and her high, pointed heels almost made own stockinged feet ache. Letting his hand slip to the small of her back, he led her into his bedroom. She followed without protest, watching him carefully as he rifled through his drawers, extracting a t-shirt and a worn pair of flannel pants and holding both out to her.

He quickly pulled the clothes back as she put out a hand to take them. "Any chance you'd be willing to forego these for your birthday suit?"

Simultaneously shooting him a glare and biting her lip to cover her amusement – the oddly erotic combination causing his heartbeat to pound in his ears – Cuddy reached out and snatched his makeshift set of pajamas.

"Can't blame a guy for trying," he pouted, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and nodding towards the bathroom. "While you're at it, leave a message with whoever it is who follows your every move at work and tell them you're gonna be late tomorrow."

She eyed him strangely, her response expected and automatic. "What are you going to – "

"Let you sleep," he interrupted, trying to keep up his teasing tone but not quite succeeding, pretending he didn't notice the way her confusion shifted into surprise before radiantly softening to a still-stunned satisfaction. "And it's not open for negotiation. You're not the boss of me here, and I'll tie you down if I have to. In fact…."

Her eyes swept to his, head tilted as she held his gaze, and he returned her cerulean stare with equal intensity, neither blinking. Too soon and without any threats about exactly what might happen if rumors started to circulate at the hospital, she gave a curt nod, breaking eye contact and heading into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a muffled click.

House returned to the kitchen, finding a spoon and stirring the noodles, which had already started to stick together in the now-boiling water. As he finished dinner, he listened to the running of the water in the bathroom, her footsteps, and muffled voice on the phone – liked the thought and sounds of her moving so easily through his rooms.

She had neatly folded her clothes and placed them on the arm of his sofa, and was perched wearily beside them. He handed her a bowl, unhooking his cane from his arm and propping it against the couch.

"Chef's special. Mangia."

"Looks delicious."

"Don't give me that crap. I know you'd rather eat your rabbit food." He sat down next to her, tucking into his pasta with gusto even though it was his second meal in as many hours. "You know, that's probably why you're sick. You need to eat some real food every once in awhile."

She picked at dinner, chewing thoughtfully. "I'm not sick."

"Right. Those dark circles under your eyes are the picture of perfect health. It's a good thing only one of us is in charge of diagnostics."

"Well, the other one of us is in charge of the person in charge of diagnostics. As well as every other department…."

"I knew you'd play the boss lady card." He jabbed his fork at her for emphasis. "Is that the only hand you ever have?"

"It trumps almost anything you've ever got," she responded, eyeing the tines of his fork and shifting away from them.

"So, what – the entire hospital's gonna come crashing down if the all-powerful boss lady so much as admits that she might be susceptible to the flu bug?"

"Crashing, no. But I'm pretty sure you'd do your best to throw a wrench into whatever gears you could, and I don't want to be stuck cleaning up after you."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "The janitorial staff and I've already staged a coup for tomorrow whether you're there or not." Finishing his pasta and setting the bowl down, he leaned over and peered into her dish and rolling his eyes. "Good Lord, you're slow."

"What are you, five?" She yanked her bowl away from his face, careful not to send noodles flying. "You don't have to wait for me to finish."

Sighing in mock disgust, he rose, heading towards the piano and downing the rest of his scotch in one gulp. He heard the hollow sound of her bowl hitting the coffee table as he sat down at the piano bench and glanced over at her as he started to play. "Finish your dinner."

He let his fingers dance over the keys, inventing the tune as they went – some of it snatches of tunes he had heard before, others finding ground in experience, emotion, sudden inspiration. The music unraveled slowly from the piano, notes and scales quivering through every open space in the room, so that neither of them could breathe without drawing in the melody.

He had only been at the piano a few minutes, but when he looked over at Cuddy again, her eyes were closed, her head resting against the couch. She didn't move when he stopped playing, and he rose and approached her, softly sing-songing her name. "Lisa…."

She mumbled something to the effect of staying where she was and swatted at his outstretched hand, but he brushed off both the half-words and gesture. "We're not sleeping on the couch again. C'mon. I can't carry you, but I'll drag if I have to. Caveman style." He tangled his fingers in the hair at her scalp, pretending to pull.

She conceded, rising and leaning wearily against him, her slender frame strangely fragile in his loose-fitting clothes. "Hey…." He spoke with quiet, uncharacteristic seriousness, squeezing her shoulder to make sure he had her attention. "You sure everything's okay?"

"Mmm," she murmured, nodding. "I'm just tired."

"You can't lie to me, Lise," he scolded lightly, stopping them both as they entered his bedroom and turning to face her.

She yawned, mumbling into his chest. "I've just had a lot on my mind lately."

His usual teasing tone returned involuntarily, but even it had softened. "Care to elaborate? Or are you going to make me play Twenty Ques– "

Her kiss surprised him, her mouth landing askew of his own, just catching his lower lip and sliding center-ward as her arms wrapped around his neck and tugged him down to her. Small and delicate as she was, she dominated him fiercely. The hesitant, feathery pressure of her lips gloriously ascending, needy and suddenly bruising, as his mouth opened to the wet heat of her tongue running lightly along the seam of his lips.

The clatter of his cane echoed as if through a far-off tunnel. He needed both hands to pull her impossibly closer – one, at the back of her neck, cradling her head; the other arm wrapping around her waist, his fingers sneaking underneath the soft cotton of her shirt, splaying against her smooth, even softer skin. His fingertips tickled their way up her torso, and he smiled against her lips as they discovered what he had longed to affirm since she had changed – she wasn't wearing a bra.

Her breath hitched, motions stuttering, her body wavering as she leaned into his arms, relinquishing all control as suddenly as she had seized it. Reluctantly, paying no heed to his raging hormones and heartbeat, the ear-splitting screech that all his senses simultaneously sounded in dissatisfaction, he pulled away, breathing in the air she expelled as he rested his forehead against hers.

She moaned in protest, but he silenced her with a single, chaste kiss, letting his words rumble against her lips. "Sleep. I'll take a rain check."

Tugging her gently towards the bed and pulling back the covers, he pecked the corner of her mouth, the bruise at her temple, her forehead. Silently, sleepily, they tumbled into bed, and House waited with closed eyes for the soft sound of her breathing to deepen and even out beside him.

Thanks again for reading, all, and please let me know what you thought - your reviews make me smile.