I'm so sorry this took so long - I had to make an unexpected trip to Illinois, which took up a few prime writing days. As you all've said you like long chapters, hopefully this will make it up to you. Thanks so much for the awesome reviews - I wish I could thank you all individually, but I have to be out the door in five minutes (and I'm sure you'd much rather get to the story anyway). Just know that you all really know how to make someone smile.

Chapter 8: Capture

This hazy half-sleep was almost as good as a Vicodin high. His mind had not yet wakened enough to remind him of the pain in his leg, only relaying a languid heaviness and the sense that if he tried to move, his muscles would not be strong enough for the task. He was in his own bed, he knew, the softness of the sheets familiar, but somehow more comfortable than he had last remembered them. Behind closed eyelids in the red darkness of late morning, he watched the memory of her asleep beside him, as if in a dream.

The sudden smack of knuckles to his jawbone brought House careening to consciousness, the unexpected violent interruption of sleep hitting him like a bolt of lightning. "What the hell…?"

He tried to sit up and take in his surroundings, but something on his chest held him fast, and he could do little more than momentarily panic as he found himself unable to move, his eyes snapping open. The weight on his chest was warm and breathing: fist unclenched into separate fingers delicately curled against the coarse stubble at his jaw; her hair just under his nose, sweetly scented of vanilla and honeysuckle – he had thought nothing short of sizzling bacon could smell so good upon waking.

Cuddy's body was pressed against his, left leg bent and intertwined with his own. His first thought was that he would have to tease her – the self-proclaimed all-powerful Dean of Medicine clinging so tightly to her lowly nephrologist and diagnostician. Then he noticed where they were positioned – the almost-equal space on either side of the mattress, sheets and blankets in a tangled central mass – and he realized he had met her halfway.

One arm was already curved around her, fingers resting against her waist, and he moved his free arm slowly and gently, feeling her forehead for fever. Light as his motions were, they somehow woke her. She stirred, mumbling sleepily, her body arching against him as she stretched.

"You've got a mean left hook," he muttered after a moment, giving her time to waken fully.

Cuddy lifted her chin to peer up at him and frowned, clearly confused. Her eyes were an intense blue upon waking, glinting with what he hoped weren't the lingering effects of fever. Her frown crept upward, bending into a smile as she watched him study her, and he quickly took control before she could speak, rubbing his jaw.

"I knew you were a multi-tasker, but you should've warned me that you use your REM cycle to practice Krav Maga."

She chuckled lightly in return, running her thumb along his jaw line, his rough stubble rasping. "Big baby."

"You're lucky I don't report you. The members of the board would love a good abuse scandal."

"Against you? They'd vote to raise my salary."

He sneered at her teasingly, brushing the hair from her forehead at the same time, subtly trying once again to feel for fever – but with the two of them pressed so close together and cuddled under the blankets, it was difficult to tell whether he should let her heated skin should worry him. The bruise at her temple, at least, was fading, its edges yellowed, and she barely flinched when he pressed it gently. "Feeling better?"

Nodding, she smiled softly – he had been caught caring red-handed. She nuzzled into his shoulder, her breath hot through the thin cotton of his shirt, her voice muffled. "I think I could sleep forever. What time is it?"

"Two-thirty," he responded, without looking at the clock, unable to resist taunting her. To say that she was irresistible when riled – chest heaving, heartbeat racing, eyes narrowed viciously – was a vast understatement.

"What?!" Her head shot off his shoulder faster than he thought neurons and muscles should be able to collaborate. Eyes wide, she hilariously tangled herself further in the blankets, nearly knocking them both off the bed in her effort to get up.

He glanced at his watch and pulled her down, despite how her thrashing movements caused pain to shoot up his leg. "Relax. It's nine-thirty."

Understandably wary, she shot him a ferocious glare and tugged at his wrist, twisting it so she could read his watch herself. "Ass." She smacked him lightly, but her forehead descended to his shoulder once again, and she sighed with relief.

"You're the one abusing a cripple," he pointed out. "And at least I don't talk in my sleep."

"Neither do I."

Anticipating her reaction, he wrapped his arms tightly around her slender waist so she wouldn't be able to escape, pitching his voice high in a breathy, girlish imitation. "Oh, Greg…. You're such a…."

"Shut up. I do not talk in my sleep." She tried to raise herself off him but he held her fast.

He stared at her, completely serious. "You're asleep – "

"And even if I did, it would definitely not – "

" – how would you know?"

She let him cut her off, rolling her eyes. "Two different roommates in college; three others in med school and after. Someone would've said something." Her toes wriggled against him, tapping out a rhythm to a song neither of them heard. He had known her for so long and was only just beginning to pick up on her little habits. Sometimes the movement was barely perceptible – the tapping of a shoe, the twisting of a rubber-band – but there were very few moments when she sat perfectly still. "And there are a thousand other ways to end that sentence that are much more likely than whatever you had in mind."

"Ass is out. You've used it already and the article's wrong. Someone as anal retentive as you are would never stand for it." He grinned. "Med school was ages ago…."

"Child. Jackass. Bastard," she stated, ticking them off on her fingers. "And don't even start. You're older than – "

"Low blow. Ever think there might be a reason you had so many different roommates?"

"Is this the same reason I can't keep a man, because I really don't want to hear it."

"Food has nothing to do with it," he answered automatically, only then picking up on the hint of pain that grated her voice even through the teasing. "Hey." He said it to get her attention and wouldn't continue until he had it, her eyes sliding to his somewhat reluctantly. "I'm not going anywhere."

He waited just long enough for her smile to blossom, budding beautifully, impossibly from pursed lips, the effect like watching a rose bloom in fast forward – radiance spiraling from little more than potential. "Mostly because you've done a pretty good job at pinning me down."

Cuddy groaned in disgust – the smile still not faded, he noted – and moved to roll off him. She raised an eyebrow when he refused to let her go, glancing from his face to his hands at her waist and back again, daring him to come up with some excuse for his behavior. He didn't fail her.

"I didn't say I wanted you to go anywhere either."

She pressed her lips to his, kissing him softly, but not lingering as he would have liked. When she rose this time, he let her go – mostly because the touch of her lips had disarmed him – following her up but resting on the edge of the bed. He moved to rub his leg out of habit, a futile effort to rid it of the persistent ache that plagued him every morning. But her hands were already there.

With the meticulous care that only a well-trained doctor could provide, Cuddy seemed to know just the amount of pressure he needed, weaving it with a tenderness he had never felt from anyone. Under her skilled fingertips the soreness diminished.

"It's the least I can do," she stated quietly: an apology, he knew – though an unnecessary one – for having slept on him two nights running.

Mind chugging slowly as her touch overwhelmed him, he tried to think rationally, to conjure up images of the medical journals he had seen around her office, because must have studied this somewhere – even so-called feminine intuition couldn't be this good.

Only when he saw her watching him curiously did he realize he must have been staring, and as usual, whether appropriate or not, the first thing to come to mind was all he could offer her. "I still have that rain check…."

For a moment, she looked torn, hands stilling, though he thought he felt them tremble; and if she had cashed in his ticket then and there, he would have sworn that two seemingly-impossible things had happened simultaneously: hell had frozen over, and he had died and gone to heaven (the latter, of course, impossible without the former).

But then her eyes flicked to his watch, her features suddenly stern. "Work." Still she didn't move, and her voice softened just perceptibly as her eyes met his. "Later."

He watched her, unblinking. "Can I get that in writing?"

"You'll have to take my word for it."

"You won't be sick forever," he warned, shaking his head as she opened her mouth argue. "Don't give me that I'm not sick crap. If somebody had stopped playing Super Doctor for two minutes and gotten her flu shot…."

"If a certain member of my staff would actually do his job and – "

"I offered to talk to Wilson." He drummed his fingers on the back of one of her hands, both still resting warmly on his thigh. "And the minute you're – "

"Not at the hospital," she interrupted, no doubt softer than she had intended.

"You didn't let me finish." His hand stilled on top of hers. "The minute you're better – and not at the hospital – you'd better be ready to – "

"I will be."

"You didn't let me finish," he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"I didn't have to." Her smile curled mischievously, and in that instant he saw a reflection of himself in her face. They were both rocketing from one emotion to another, following whatever this was between them from one moment to the next. She continued to surprise him, and he was loving every second of it.

"Good with your hands, aggressive, and clairvoyant – you vixen." He reached for his cane. "C'mon. I can be dressed in five minutes and then we've gotta get you home to change."

"Right." She snorted with laughter. "I can drive myself. You should've been at work half an hour ago."

"And think of how much smoother your hospital is probably running without me."

"Be that as it may," Cuddy began, rising, and he made sure to have his best puppy dog face at the ready when she looked back down on him, the rest of her words dying on her lips. "Stop procrastinating."

She put her foot down. Literally: arms folded, chin jutted out, and that no-nonsense stare he got so often. Yet the image of her barefoot in his pajamas was so endearing that it was hard to take her seriously.

He grinned up at her, knew she could tell he was up to something. "Greg…." Her tone was warning, and she backed away from him as he stood and took a lurching step forward. "Whatever you're planning…."

"You're an idiot." His smile grew as she scowled, and he tried to catch her arm, but she was too quick, and he had to settle for an arm's length between them. "If you had any sense at all, you'd realize how unbelievably sexy you look right now and find a way to use it against me."

She reddened, just slightly, dropping her gaze but recovering quickly. "You're incorrigible."

"And you're still standing here."

"Not for long." True to her word, she turned and walked away, calling back over her shoulder. "Stop enjoying the view and get ready for work. If you're not there by the time I get in…."

He couldn't remember the urge to run, the anger and frustration at not being able to, ever having been so strong. "Lise…." She turned, and he leaned against the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to pull off nonchalance. "Promise me you'll take it easy today."

In reality, her answer wasn't one at all: the flick of her chin perhaps standing in for a nod, but there were no accompanying motions or words of agreement. But the way she inadvertently mirrored his actions, rubbing her neck, and tried to hide a bashful grin with the twist of her head was all the response he needed. And when she stayed rooted to the ground and let him approach her for one last sizzling kiss before she left, he definitely wasn't complaining.

"ANA was negative. It's not lupus," Cameron stated as they rounded the corner, the three younger doctors perfectly in step beside their limping mentor.

"You might as well test him for smallpox while you're at it," House sneered. "How long have you worked here and when has it ever been lupus?"

"If you didn't think it was lupus why'd you order the test?" Chase asked, frustration evident – the temper of their latest patient was wearing them all thin, and that his symptoms were broad and progressing slowly wasn't at all helping.

"Because I love the smell of antinuclear antibodies in the morning," House answered, breathing in deeply through his nose and releasing the breath in a loud sigh. As usual, his team pretended to ignore his theatrics. "And because testing for things before you rule them out usually keeps Cuddy from screeching at you – though I know how much you enjoy that sort of thing. It's never lupus. Next."

Foreman stepped up to the plate. "Tumor lysis syndrome."

"Whoa, Speed Racer." House slowed his steps to make his point, aiming at Foreman an annoyed and incredulous look with which the younger doctor was all too familiar. "You think a patient can magically get tumor lysis syndrome without being treated for cancer, but there's no way he can have a genetic condition and an infection at the same time?"

"Who says it's an infection?"

"I do. And the 102-degree fever agrees with me."

"There are hundreds of infections that could account for his symptoms," Chase protested.

"But probably only one that's slowly killing him. Better start looking for that one before any important organ systems start failing," House replied, pausing to fish his Vicodin bottle out of his pocket. "So I'm not the only one who thinks the patient's gotten a lot more boring after we diagnosed the PHP?"

Although House would never admit it aloud, Chase was right. Over half the symptoms on the whiteboard had been erased once they had discovered the pseudohypoparathyroidism: tremor, convulsions, muscle cramps, low calcium, high phosphate… all the interesting ones. The fever, vomiting, and respiratory symptoms that remained were more of a nuisance than anything. They had slowly worsened, to be sure, but they were all itching for the course of whatever disease this was to take a nose-dive, presenting them with something fresh and dramatic.

From slightly behind him, House heard Cameron heave a sigh. "Have you even gone to see him yet?"

"Of course." He feigned offense, but Cameron wasn't buying it.

"And you talked to him?"

"Would've been rude not to."

"Was he awake?" Foreman added pointedly.

House paused for a moment, and twisted his mouth as if deep in thought. "That's debatable."

"Why don't we start him on broad-spectrum antibiotics?" Chase asked before the ever-moral Cameron was able to rebuke him. "Whatever's he's got – "

"Broad-spectrum'll nip it in the ankles as hard as it can with its itty bitty baby teeth," House responded, childishly lisping the end of the sentence. "Might even immobilize the big, bad infection for all of ten seconds. But we don't want to tickle the monster, we want to chop the ugly bastard's…."

A flash of red outside Cuddy's office forced House to a sudden stop. At the edge of the Dean's office window, about three feet off the ground, the pane of glass was smudged with fingerprints, a circle of fog appearing and fading every few seconds. Spider-Man greeted them with a blank stare, fiercely shooting a blast of webbing that might have been threatening if it wasn't confined to a two-dimensional expanse of red and blue cotton. The little boy rocked back and forth on the worn tiptoes of his sneakers, fingers and forehead pressed against the glass.

"House?"

He continued in a low voice, forcing his team to lean toward him, much to their obvious dismay. "Make him worse, ID the infection, fix him, and send him home."

"Why are you – ?"

"Shhh!" he chastised sharply, waving a hand.

"What's wrong?" Cameron tried again, whispering this time.

"You're still here," House answered, softly but sharply, eyes still glued on the boy. "The lab's that way. Go," he added when the three younger doctors still hadn't moved. Without a word, but surely a few shared looks, they obeyed.

He shuffled forward silently, careful to keep his reflection out of the boy's view in the window. Taking his eyes from the child for only a moment, he glimpsed Cuddy hunched busily over her desk, phone cradled on her right shoulder as she scribbled furiously with her other hand, oblivious to the tiny voyeur just outside her window. She wasn't exactly taking it easy, but he would have to call her out on it later. Right now, he had a spider to catch.

With practiced dexterity, House seized the boy's shoulder with one hand, swinging his cane out with the other and pressing its rubber tip to the window, successfully cutting off all possible routes of escape. Startled, the boy sucked in a breath, bumping his forehead against the glass, repeating the action when he started again at the sound of the voice behind him.

"Gotcha!"

Thanks again for reading! Please feed my muse and let me know what you thought!