A/N: Happy New Year guys! Many thanks as usual to alias424 for keeping me sane. Enjoy!


"Cuddy."

"No," she moaned, dragging the covers up over her head only to have them not go any farther than her shoulder. She turned her face into her pillow, grumbling and squeezing her eyes shut to avoid the bright sunlight – but all she could see was shadows of red dancing across the back of her lids. "No," she stated again – her voice bordering on a whine.

"Come on, Cuddy." House's voice was right by her ear, and she reached behind her, smacking whatever part of him she could reach. "Ow! Hey – I'm injured!"

"Obviously not injured enough," she mumbled into her pillow as his hand crept up to her shoulder, pushing until she rolled over. She kept her hands under her pillow though and it came with her. She heard him sigh gustily, and the pillow was tugged from her face as she protested. "God! It's seven-thirty in the morning, House. On a Sunday!"

"I know."

"You never wake up this early – in fact I didn't think you knew this early even existed." She was slowly opening her eyes – wincing against the sunlight pouring into the room and the image of his almost cheerful face above her.

"Well I haven't been sleeping this well in years, sue me. Come on – get up."

"I get one day off a week, House. One day to sleep in." She was complaining even as she began to sit up, the stupid female part of her melting at the sight of him so almost cheerful. Because clearly he would never be cheerful in the traditional sense, but the fact that he was waking her was indication enough.

"You were off all last week – "

"In your room. While you were in a coma! Not exactly the most restful of places – "

"I'll make you breakfast." He was bargaining now and she crossed her arms and glared at him.

"Pop Tarts don't count as 'making me breakfast'."

"Why do you have them in your cupboards then?" he asked with a smile and she just glared at him harder.

"Why am I up?"

"It's a nice day. Thought we could take a walk – I'll buy you breakfast." She finally smiled, allowing herself to be happy – just for the moment. It had been a week since he'd left the hospital – he had started physical therapy and was healing nicely. But best of all was his attitude recovery. It wasn't drastic – not even close, because House without his usual bitter sarcasm wouldn't be House at all – but he wasn't miserable.

"You never pay for anything," she pointed out as she shoved the covers back and looked at him archly. "I'm getting in the shower. And there had better be coffee when I'm done."


'What, he's sending you now?' He can barely hold himself up against the doorframe and it's easy for you to push past him into the room. 'Like I'll let you – hey!'

You are picking up bottles, walking into the kitchen with them, and by the time he gets in there – the liquid is already gone. 'No more drinking,' you snap, pushing back past him and pulling the books off his shelves, finding the hidden bottles before moving over to his piano bench and lifting the seat, grabbing one more.

'You can't make me – '

'Yes, I can.' You throw the bottles in the sink and they shatter as you turn to him, your eyes blazing. 'I did not save your sorry ass for you to drink yourself to death.'

'I didn't ask you to – '

'You would have done the same damn thing to me, so let's stop this stupid fucking blame game. Yes, I screwed you over. Yes, you hate me. I did it to save your life – and you would have done the same. You – ' You walk forward, pushing him back. '– don't get to do this.'

'Fuck you,' he finally spits out at you, hatred making his eyes burn an intense blue.

'You did. Look where it got you. Now sit down and shut the hell up – I'm making coffee.'

'What, going to go all Florence Nightingale on me? I'm not going to thank you with sexual favours – ' You tune him out as you turn back to the sink, picking up the broken glass and carelessly tossing it into the trash.

He finally leaves you alone, and fifteen minutes later you are placing coffee and food in front of him. 'I hate you,' he mumbles, but you ignore him as you move around the room, picking up empty pill bottles and takeout bags. Of course he hates you – it is what you have to live with. Your sacrifice, his scar and enough pain to go around.

'I expect you at work on Monday.' Your voice is tight as you exit the now somewhat-clean kitchen – you aren't a maid service, after all, and he is leaning against the wall by the door, his grip on his cane tight and his eyes on you are heavy.

'I'm still on – '

'I don't give a shit. If you're well enough to be drunk off your ass, you're well enough to work,' you snap, and although it makes little sense, you are too angry to care. You feel like all of it was for nothing now. There would be no happy ending, not for either one of you. All that's left is anger and disappointment, and what kind of ending is that?

'Must be so nice, huh Cuddy?' His voice is taunting and you stare at him for a moment, pausing before the door. Your hesitation is a weakness, one he preys on as his hand snakes out, gripping your arm tightly as he pulls you closer. 'So nice to walk out of here, pain-free and not giving a fuck.' You simply glare at him, because you can't speak around the rage that is suddenly choking you, and there's already so much anger crackling through the air, like an electrical storm waiting to burst. 'What? Are you going to tell me you're sad? In pain, too?'

'No, I've never been happier.' The words drip out of your mouth before you can stop them and he is staring at you hard now.

'Stacy's gone. Isn't that what you wanted? All I have left is you – even if I do hate you – and isn't that what you wanted too?' If your voice was painful, his was sulphuric acid – burning away any protective layers you had on.

'Hate me all you want, House.' You still can't say it back – never could, and he exhales in frustration because he wants you to fight back, but you can't fight anymore.

His hand squeezes tighter, painful on your arm, but you make no move to pull away, yanking you even closer until you are practically leaning on him against the wall. 'Fight me, dammit. Hate me.' You open your mouth to attack back, but his lips are already there, bruising and painful – but like water to your parched heart. You drink him in – giving back just as painfully – because it hurt. Your hands are in his hair, and his one free hand is roaming down your back until it grips your hip with a strength you didn't think he had in him.

They say there is a thin line between love and hate, and you know it's true. Because it is so easy for love to turn into a hate so strong that it shocks your system, and so easy for that hate to heat up into something even more destructive. Your hands are on his shirt now, and you are one more weapon in his arsenal that he is trying to destroy himself with. Your heart rebels, but the angry lust coursing through you is far more powerful, and no small thing like a rendered heart is going to stop it now.

You will destroy each other.


"So when are you going to tell me what's going on with you and Wilson?" He was meandering along the path next to her – one hand wrapped around his cane and the other enclosed around a rapidly melting cone of ice cream. She glanced over with a sigh, wishing she could somehow make him drop this subject. It wasn't the first time he'd asked, and she was getting tired of side-stepping and talking around him.

"I'm not," she finally pointed out, pulling her hand out of her pockets and letting them both swing beside her freely – her skin soaking up the scarlet warmth the sun was seeping into it.

"He's my friend. And you're my – " House stopped abruptly, and she felt a small grin creep across her face. They were nameless – always had been and always would be indescribable. No simple phase or sentence could cover the multitude of connections they shared, that spilled out between them, dancing and refracting along the sunlight.

"Your what?" she pressed him, and he glared at her before tossing what was left of his cone in the trash and attempting to wipe his hands on the tiny napkin provided.

"The point is, that you two always get along. Always. Even when I wouldn't talk to you – Wilson would be hanging around you, offering 'support' until he felt you were ripe for the plucking." His tone was sarcastic, but she stared at him open-mouthed anyway.

"He does not!"

"Of course he does – can we sit?" He motioned to a picnic table not too far away and she nodded, walking with him and sitting. The wood was hot and pressed into her already flushed skin – but it was a comforting kind of pain – almost pleasant. "He's just been lying in wait."

"That's ridiculous – I'm not his type," she pointed out in an irritated tone, and House shrugged.

"You're every man's type, Cuddy. Have you looked at yourself lately? I assume so – I mean you have to adjust the girls just right every morning – " She smacked him lightly on the arm and he glanced over at her with a chuckle.

"You know what I mean. Wilson likes those weepy, needy women. I don't do weepy. Or needy." House nodded and propped his elbows on the tabletop, resting his chin there thoughtfully as they watched ducks glide across the pond next to them. It was so normal – and so out of place for them – it was ridiculously sublime. They weren't a couple. They didn't do coupley things like take walks on warm afternoons, holding hands and enjoying being. They argued and made fun of each other and had sex and then argued some more.

"None of this addresses the original question. Why aren't you two getting along, congratulating yourselves on finally fixing me?" His tone took a turn towards bitter, and she stared over at him while his eyes continued to track those ducks across the pond.

"We didn't fix you – no one can do that, House. Twenty years and I've finally stopped trying. And Wilson – well, he thinks this was all a mistake. That the Ketamine won't work and you'll crash harder than before." He finally turned to her as she spoke, his eyes transferring their intense concentration to studying her face.

"What do you think?"

"I don't," she answered simply, leaning forward against the rough wood. His hand dropped to hers and she smiled slightly. "I... I just hope, I guess. Even if – " Her voice caught as she tried to explain, and his hand wrapped around hers more securely.

"Even if," he responded, and she nodded as they fell into silence. Even if it all went wrong – and of course they thought about it, prepared for it. Experience had taught them well. Even if it all fell apart – they had the now. And the now was what helped her survive through all these years with him. She was determined that they would survive more.


'I know you're in there, Cuddy. I can practically smell the guilt out here.' The noise startles you and you sigh as you exit the kitchen and move over to open your apartment door.

'You know, normal people knock a few times before yelling things through doors.' Your words are automatic as your eyes scan over him, ravenous after a year. He looks tired – and there is the beginning of grey along his temples. It looks odd, and you are visibly reminded of how long you pushed him away. Not that he fought you that hard. You blink and he shoves a piece of paper in your face roughly.

'What the hell is this?' He spits the words out and pushes past you into the apartment, and you sigh, closing the door after him.

'A job offer.'

'From you? Congratulations by the way – I guess being a cold-hearted bitch really does get you to the top faster.'

You would be lying if you didn't say it stings. But you are a phenomenal liar, so you smile coldly over at him and he seems to freeze for a moment. 'Guess it does. I have everything I could possibly want now.' You voice is so chilly you think he must have frostbite, but he laughs bitterly.

'Really. How nice for you. I don't accept.' He throws the paper down on the table beside him and moves past you. You expected this, you tell yourself. It's for the best.

'Where else are you going to get an offer like that?' Your voice is speaking without your consent and you curse inwardly, turning to see him frozen with one hand on the doorknob. 'Who else is going to take your shit – your tests without consent – your patient complaints – and how else are you going to find a job within fifty miles of here?'

'I can get by.' His voice is a vicious snarl and you laugh out loud.

'You were sued fifteen times in the last year.' You speak matter-of-factly and he turns, his eyes surprised. 'Lucky you have a girlfriend who's a lawyer or you would have been jobless months ago. No administrator in their right mind is going to take you on. Let alone offer what I am offering.'

'Does that mean you're not in your right mind?' he asks dryly and you can almost hear the humour – but not quite.

'No. It means I know how good you are. I know how many lives you'll save, and how good your department can make my hospital look.'

'All about numbers, huh, Cuddy? You didn't always – '

'I am what I have to be, House,' you snap at him in irritation and he is watching you closely now – too close for comfort. 'I can control you.'

'As if,' he snorts and you glare at him with a frown.

'I can do damage control,' you amend and he nods, even though you privately know that given enough leeway you can control him. He is no great mystery to you anymore – though it makes him no less fascinating.

'I won't teach. I hate incompetent – '

'That's why you teach them. And it isn't like you're getting interns for God's sake, House. They're fellows.' He is stepping closer to you now, almost reluctantly and you want to smile because you are winning and you know it.

'I want fifteen percent more,' he demands softly, stopping only a few feet from you now and you shift uncomfortably. You try to steel yourself, because if you can't handle proximity you may as well withdraw the offer now. And you don't want to do that, for reasons unknown to you.

'No way. I am offering a more than generous salary and you can't find work anywhere else.'

He steps forward again, his eyes lighting for the first time since he arrived. He stands taller, and seems less tired now. 'I want the offices next to Wilson then.'

'They're not available – '

'Make them available.' He is moving so close now you can feel his body heat and smell him – soap and leather, and it's making your insides buzz slightly in reaction.

'You'd never get any work done – '

'I want those offices,' he states simply, towering in front of you now and you have to look too far up because you are in your bare feet.

'Why?'

'Next to Wilson. Far away from you – '

'It's my hospital, nowhere is far enough away, House,' you warn, and he smiles slightly as he stares into your eyes and you can't seem to take another breath.

'Balcony is the perfect level to throw things at people in the parking lot – '

'There isn't a balcony, House.' You speak dryly and he looks down at you, stooping a little to meet your eyes.

'Yet. I want one. Goes from my office to Wilson's – '

'What, you're negotiating for him now too?'

'Why not? He is my friend.' His voice is bitter and you sigh as you can feel guilt pushing at your insides.

'Fine, balcony. But you have to take on three fellows instead of two – every three years.' He smiles in triumph and you glare up at him, crossing your arms.

'Like any of them will stay that long.' He chuckles and you keep glaring, feeling your whole body tremble slightly as he brushes against you. His eyes darken as he notices and you fight to keep the glare in place.

'Bound to be someone who can stand you for more than a year, House.'

His eyes flash dangerously at that and he sneers down at you. 'Is that some kind of jab, because it's been almost two years actually '

'Congratulations.' Your voice is insincere and he is glaring at you know. 'Except that I hear even she's reaching the breaking point now.'

'She isn't you,' he bites out callously. 'Just because we're in a rough patch doesn't mean she's gonna run for the hills.' His voice is low and you feel anger simmering under your skin, boiling just below the surface.

'I didn't run – '

'Liar,' he taunts you and you let out a harsh breath, wishing the frustration would leave with it.

'Are we done?' Your voice is oddly quiet and final and he glares down at you, inches from you now, and your heart is pounding.

'Yeah. We're done.' He spits out, turning on his heel and heading for the door once again. You almost sag in relief, your back hitting the wall behind you for support. Suddenly though, he turns, and is right in front of you again, his eyes intense and so damn bright they're all you can see. It brings up a memory – one tucked away and faded from use – of him above you on the sofa that's two feet away, his eyes hot and his mouth hotter as it meets your own in a delicious power struggle. He is staring at you and your skin is flushing, a gentle pink spreading up your chest and neck and his eyes drop down to it. You nipples tighten in response and in the blink of an eye his hands are in your hair and his mouth is on yours. It's angry – harsh and punishing, but your body doesn't seem to care as you hands press against his back and you return the kiss for all you're worth.

You are weak – you know this as his hands slip under your shirt and his heated touch strokes against the cool skin there. You gasp when his thumb brushes across your breast and he smiles against your throat at your reaction. Your mind struggles to come up with reasons this is a bad idea. He has a girlfriend – but you don't care. Your hands are in his hair again and you tug his head back up to yours and meet his mouth again, more roughly and you moan because you love it. He's your employee. Not yet, though – and you are pulling his shirt off as you both stumble down the hall. You can't seem to get enough of the taste of him, and in the heat of the moment, it's perfect. He finally gets your shirt off, and when your skin finally – finally – presses against his, you can feel your hearts beating in tandem. He's angry at you – your mind finally comes up with the weakest excuse of all, one that you shed with your pants as ridiculous. He doesn't hate you – any more than you hate him.

You know you'll feel guilty tomorrow – but all you can do right now is feel. His hands on your thighs, his face by your hip as you gasp under him. The heat of his gaze as you finally wrap your legs around him, and how full your heart feels afterward. It's an incredible high – higher than you've ever been before and you love it and hate it all at once. It will never be the same again, and you know this as you cry out, your voice hoarse and your breathing ragged. He moans into your neck deeply, and it's over before it began – rushed and heated, the both of you outrunning the guilt. He collapses on top of you and you try to remember how to breathe properly, but you can't seem to do it, other than in hitching gasps that echo in the silence.

His face is buried in your neck and his breathing is rapid. 'She's not you,' he repeats, but this time it's an apology, an irrevocable truth and you know.

This wouldn't be the last time.


"How is he?"

It should be a simple question – an inquiry, gently put and patiently awaited, but instead it sounds like an accusation, and she bristled at the very tone of it. "Call him," she responded shortly, snapping the file shut and moving away from the desk. Wilson heaved a sigh behind her and followed doggedly.

"He hasn't called me," he pointed out – and again the accusation is there – faint and for experienced ears only, but she is more experienced than she wants to be.

"Yeah, funny thing after getting shot. There's all kinds of physical therapy and doctor's appointments that he's actually keeping to, amazingly enough – "

"That doesn't mean he can't call," Wilson pointed out, and she sighed, finally sliding to a halt and spinning to face him.

"I'm not his mother, Wilson. Or his secretary. If you want to talk to him, call him."

"And where exactly would I do that. He doesn't seem to be home lately – should I call your place?" His words were calm, almost reasonable. Except for the fact that they were in the middle of a busy hallway teeming with nurses, and he wasn't lowering his voice at all. She levelled a glare on him that would have made a lesser man pass out.

"He does have a cell phone – "

"That he doesn't answer."

"You know what?!" She threw her hands up with an exasperated sigh. "He has a PT appointment today at three. Corner him there. Do your whole Spanish Inquisition thing on him – I'm a bit sick of it." She moved again, stalking into her office, throwing open the door with more force than was strictly necessary. It was used to it anyway. Hell – it probably missed it now that House was gone.

"If you'd answer the questions it wouldn't be an inquisition." Wilson had, of course, followed her. She dropped the file on her desk and turned with a sigh, leaning against her desk and crossing her arms.

"He's good. His PT is going well – his pain hasn't returned. He still needs the cane, of course – he won't be running marathons anytime soon but he seems happy."

"And when it all goes away? You couldn't stick around to pick up the pieces once, Lisa – you think you can do it now?" Her anger washed over her at his words – a faint red tinge coloring her vision like day-old blood stained across her retinas. He simply stared at her, and she fought to bite down on the words choking her slowly. He was House's friend. His best friend. Once upon a time – he had been hers as well. So she somehow managed – just – to remain silent as he stared at her a beat too long before sighing and sliding his hands from his hips as he turned to leave.

Once her office was empty again, she unwrapped her arms and slid her hands across her face, breathing deeply until the crimson subsided from her mind. He was her friend. Once upon a time.


The day you found out about Stacy is burned in your mind forever, like a pivotal point in your life. The point when you realize that you aren't always right – and sometimes you can take too long to act. Wilson – poor sweet Wilson who is both your best friends – lets it slip accidentally, three weeks after your thirtieth birthday. You celebrated together – getting drunk but not as drunk as you would have before Esther – and after that, work and schedules seemed to conflict enough that all you saw of House and Wilson were snatched coffees in the cafeteria. So when Wilson shows up one day for lunch – an excuse to discuss his already failing marriage – you accept happily, because you haven't seen him – not really – in a while.

He is talking about his wife, and trying not to be bitter, and you are trying to be supportive without pointing out the fact that if he stopped sleeping with other women, maybe he'd stay married longer. 'It's so funny that I'm the one getting divorced and House of all people is committing. He's never even committed to a membership at a video store but now he's living with Stacy. God.' Wilson takes a bite of his salad, oblivious to the whiteness of your face and the shock running through your system as you stare at him. 'What do you think of her, anyway? She's not exactly what I pictured as his type. Truth be told I kind of always hoped you – ' He looks up then and trails off as guilt washes over his face. 'Oh God. You knew, right? Tell me you knew, Lisa!'

Wilson is the only person who calls you Lisa – and only when he is feeling extremely guilty. Like when he called you two weeks ago, telling you he was about to do something bad. You knew it was already too late. He is going through a rough time – again – but you don't see any need to make him feel worse, so you swallow your shock and smile tightly. You lie. Badly. 'Of course I knew. But I haven't – met her yet.'

'Oh good. For a second there….' Wilson laughs awkwardly and then takes another bite. 'That would have been really bad. But of course you know. House talks to you more than me.' You smile brightly and don't respond. Of course he talks to you. About cases, about Wilson, about the current Dean riding his ass, about sports, or TV or Wilson's wife. He talks to you about everything that doesn't matter. He hasn't talked to you about something that matters since Esther – and that was almost a year and a half ago. Wilson looks relieved and you feel guilty as he continues to speak about his issues, but you can't really hear him over the white hot pain that is lodged in your chest. You nod and murmur when appropriate, as you push your food around and swallow the bile and rage that is choking you slowly.


"Are you afraid?"

It was dark, and he couldn't have been able to see her, not clearly – so it somehow made it alright to ask him – breathe out the question in a fearful way. She didn't elaborate – or specify. She just asked and held her breath as she lay behind him, no light in the room except the faded persimmon glow from the streetlights outside.

"Afraid of what?" he finally responded, his voice gravelly and tired. She felt a tug of guilt but ignored it, because she needed control. She needed a definition for everything in her life and he was no different.

"Anything." Her voice was barely a whisper, and he rolled onto his back so he could look at her face.

"It'd be stupid not to be afraid. It's a survival instinct," he pointed out in a practical way as he peered at her in the dark. "If you meant about the treatment – then yeah." His hand gripped his thigh as he spoke, the move instinctual and automatic. "Be stupid not to be."

"Never mind," she mumbled, pressing her face by his shoulder, and his hand came up to comb through her hair. "We should be enjoying it."

"It screwed up a lot, Cuddy. My getting shot – altered perspective."

"Like what?" She looked up, genuinely curious, and he shrugged slightly, jostling her head with the movement.

"This. I was helping you – for a baby, but we can't exactly try that and you're still here." He pointed this out simply, almost casually, and she held her breath for a moment before exhaling in a rush. They didn't discuss it – generally they were bad with the communication thing. It had destroyed them once before, and yet still they continually repeated their mistakes. She thought that it was unavoidable. Clearly he thought differently.

"I'm here because – " She paused then, because what could she say to that? She wasn't in his bed at three in the morning because of her desire for a child. They weren't able to try right now anyway. She was here because she wanted to be. She needed the comfort of his heart under her ear and his warmth seeping into her own skin until she felt like a fireplace ember – lit and glowing, ready to spark.

After she had been silent just a bit too long, his chuckle rasped out and she glared at him. "Same reason I'm here then." He was laughing and she smiled softly for a moment. They weren't typical – no one involved with House ever could be.

"Because I want to be. I need to be." When she spoke softly she startled him into silence – he clearly hadn't expected an actual answer. "It – terrifies me though, and it's taking everything in me not to run," she finished and she finally looked up to see him watching her intently, his face covered by shadows.

"I can't run." His words were soft, and laced with double and triple meanings. "I don't want to." He sounded surprised by his own admission, and she stretched up, pressing her lips against his softly. His hand tangled in her hair more deeply, and he pulled her against his side, his tongue coaxing her mouth open as his hand slid down to her ass.

When she finally pulled back, their breathing was uneven, and she felt a strange tenderness in her chest. It almost hurt – like it was rubbed red and sore – but it felt so intense at the same time that she didn't want to move, lest she dislodge the feeling and burst the bubble they were in. She had been here before – recognized that tree at the side of the road – and knew she was hopelessly lost. Again. She had loved him before – and thought she couldn't possibly love him more. She had thought wrong.

"Thank you." She didn't specify what for, and he nodded as she tucked her head down on his shoulder again, burrowing there and listening to the air escaping his lungs. She loved him, and it scared the hell out of her. She had barely survived losing him last time. She was practically sure she wouldn't survive if it happened again.

But sometimes you had to let yourself get lost in order to find what you were searching for. After all, if you knew where it was to begin with – why would you have searched?


You never discuss Esther, and not just because it could end in twelve different kinds of bad. He never asks why you avoided him for four weeks, missing two poker nights. He doesn't really have to because when you do see him again, the first words out of your mouth are about Matt and his eyes darken in understanding. Wilson is happy for you – he thinks it's about time you got serious and you want to laugh at the irony of it all, but you have no one to share it with.

Wilson gets engaged again, and you find yourself at another bar, drinking too much again and watching him. Some things are different though – Matt's hand at your waist – skin too clammy for your liking and you want to step away but that wouldn't look good. You almost feel bad. Matt is a nice guy. Funny, good-looking, very charming. But his teeth are too white and his eyes are brown. Neither of these make him good enough. You feel a little sick every time he touches you, but he is a necessary tool and you use him. It makes you die a little bit inside, but you reason that you need to be willing to do the unthinkable – it's how you get ahead.

'Any day now we'll be celebrating Cuddy's promotion!' Wilson is cheerful, and drunk, and oblivious to the dark looks exchanged between his two friends. You smile and nod while Matt's hand tightens on your skin.

'I'm very proud of Lisa.' He smiles and you swallow a sudden influx of bile because you hate when he calls you Lisa – but you never let him call you Cuddy – and how can he be proud of you if he didn't even know what you went through to get here? House's lip curls up derisively across the table as he stares at Matt hard.

'We're all very proud of Lisa, Mike.' He is sneering but only she and Wilson know him well enough to notice and Wilson is simply too drunk, staring at the newest fiancé with a sotted expression. There are other people at the party – mostly her family, and a few of Wilson's, along with a large majority of co-workers.

'Matt.' Matt speaks with a smile and House rolls his eyes.

'Whatever.' Your hand grips your drink tightly and your stomach rebels against you, lurching and suddenly you want to be anywhere but right here, in this seat with this noise and this man next to you while House's eyes are lingering on you far too much. You blink slowly, breathing in and out, but nothing helps.

'I'll be… right back,' you mumble vaguely as you push away from the table almost violently and stumble in the direction of the bathroom. As you stand under the cheap lighting, the irony is not lost on you that you are right back where you started – nine years later and still staring at the same reflection, still obsessed with the same man that you will never have. 'Get a grip,' you whisper fiercely and glare at yourself, but it doesn't have the same impact. At least the bathroom is empty this time.

You run the water – cold as it can go – and run your hands under it before pressing them against your face. Your makeup will be ruined but at this point you couldn't care less. You need something. Anything to make this feeling go away. Your fingers are almost digging into your eyes and you hear the door open behind you but don't look up. When you hear the lock click, you do, your eyes darting up to the mirror in shock. He is leaning against the door, and your stomach sinks as your heart rises. Part of you expected it. Wanted it.

'He is a moron.' His voice is casual and you sigh, tension seeping out of you so rapidly that the only thing keeping you up is your hands on the sink and his eyes in the mirror. He walks until he is so close behind you, you can feel the heat from his body. 'Why are you doing this, Cuddy?'

You close your eyes against the image of him, standing behind you like he fit there, and the sound of his voice saying your name in just that way. You haven't discussed it because you hoped he knew without asking. He did know without asking, but apparently his curiosity wasn't satisfied and he needed to hear it. 'Doing what?' You let go of the sink and his eyes are accusatory as they meet yours.

'Don't pretend to be stupid. Please.' His voice is a whisper, but so bitter you flinch. His hand grabs your elbow and turns you around so you are facing him and his presence is so much more real now – looming above you and watching you intently.

'I have to,' you finally whisper, and he smiles and steps forward until you step to the left and back, your bare back hitting the cold tile.

'Mark is a distraction– '

'Matt – '

'Whatever.' He is stepping closer now and you sigh, knowing what's coming next – and you want it to happen so badly, but at the same time you know it can't. His hand comes up and his fingers trace along your shoulder lightly. You shudder and try not to think about the difference between one touch from the right man and a thousand from the wrong.

'This is a bad idea.' You speak softly, your eyes begging him to understand but his eyes are watching his hand trail along your clavicle and up your throat.

'This?' His voice is a hoarse whisper and his eyes darken as they meet yours. He inches forward – almost an impossible feat given the lack of space already in between you – and his mouth descends to hover over yours. 'Or this?' You don't have time to answer because he is kissing you and it is every bit as erotic as you remember. You were sort of hoping the memory was faulty – but his hands are sliding down your back and your mouth is opening under his. You feel like a person wandering the desert – parched and stumbling upon an oasis. You are greedily drinking him in – he tastes of yeast this time, and salt and it is the best thing you have ever tasted in your life.

Your hands reach up between you – you have to push him away, or logically this will go places it shouldn't. Your neurons can't be firing right though, because instead of pushing your hands are running up his chest and wrapping around his neck desperately. He pulls away with a chuckle and he looks down at you with heavy-lidded eyes.

'You can't replace this, Cuddy. You're stupid to try – ' He's talking too much though, and you press yourself against him, your hands moving down his body rapidly until you are gripping his ass in one hand and pulling him toward you with the other.

'Shut up, House.' He kisses you almost savagely, his lips bruising over yours. You don't mind because you pull him closer against you – a physical impossibility – and bruise him right back. Your nails dig into skin and he hisses in your mouth but doesn't stop you or your hands, which are now tearing his shirt out of his pants, eager for his flesh. His mouth moves down your throat and your head falls back. He doesn't stop this time, however, and his tongue darts out, tracing the cords in your neck until he reaches your shoulder. His hands are working the button of your halter top dress and cool air hits your heated skin for only a second before his head moves lower, and his mouth heats you up again.

'You need me.' His voice is a murmur against your skin, and you shiver, your hands gripping his hair as his lift you up until you are on the edge of what you can only assume is the sink. This brings about a whole new set of physics and your legs wrap around him, pulling his hips into your groin as he presses against you, delicious friction and pressure combined. 'You want me.'

'I….' You are gasping for air as his lips graze your nipples and you forget what the hell you were going to say anyway.

'You what?' He is lifting his head and watching you and his gaze is like liquid metal, scorching you.

'I want you.' Your voice is low and defeated, and he frowns for a moment before pulling you to him gently, and kissing you softly and slowly. It is addictive and tender, and your heart constricts because it is so beautiful it almost hurts. It shouldn't be beautiful. Not in this eerie yellow lighting, with your ass on a sink and graffitied tile at your back.

'Max is a mistake – '

'Matt.' And you pull back, your breathing uneven, feeling the shock of his name like cold water. This time your hands do push and House looks at you in confusion as you scramble off the sink, to the other side of the room. Your hands yank up your top and button it quickly, and they are shaking as you turn the lock and attempt to open the door.

His hand stops you, palm against the scarred wood as he stands behind you. 'Lisa – '

'Don't call me that!' you snap, and it sounds more like a sob than a reprimand. Your face is burning and you cannot believe what almost happened. What you almost did.

'Cuddy...' he sighs, and his other hand is gentle on your back, stroking it soothingly as you bow your head and fight not to cry. Crying is useless – nothing changes. 'Why won't you let us '

'Let us what, House?' You can't relieve the anger through tears, but this is something you can handle. 'Are we going to fuck for one night and then move on?' You are speaking over your shoulder and your voice is like shards of glass, sharp and broken all at once. 'I have a career – a plan, dammit, and there's no room for you or Matt or anyone in it.'

'Cuddy, there's no reason – '

'Besides which, how long, House? Do you think we're going to fall in love and get married and have a kid and a nanny – because neither of us would be there now – and live happily ever after?' He is silent behind you and his hands stills at the vitriol of your words. You finally turn around, all glittering eyes and flushed skin. He is looking down, unable to meet your eyes and you know that you are right.

'I don't know,' he finally answers, looking up. 'But I'm not scared shitless to find out either – '

You turn again, unable to take in his gaze as you jerk the door open, twisting the knob viciously before wrenching it toward you until his has no choice but to let go. You run. Past the table – past Matt, with him trailing after you. You run all the way into a cab, not caring about what Wilson will think – because he won't remember it tomorrow anyway – not caring about Matt – because after that scene if he didn't know what was happening in that bathroom, he was stupid – and not caring about House. Because all you needed was escape.