A/N-Hey everyone. Thanks again to all who've taken an interest, and to the reviewers: JLCH, newsession, freeasabird14, Abby, Woodses 1 and 2, ikissedtheLaurie, jkarr, jaybe61, lenasti16, Suzieqlondon, jayfukae, Naomi, murphycat, HuddyGirl, grouchysnarky, Azes, RochelleRene, LoveMyHouse, bladesmum, sweetysaucy and the Guests.

-Impetus-

There was one basic promise in their arrangement. They'd decided after their passion-clouded meditation room sex that they could continue to go condom-free as long as neither party was having sex with anyone else. This was a practical agreement made for their own health and safety. Even as a hater of rules in general, House had a profound appreciation for that one rule. He certainly wasn't going to admit that he didn't want her to have sex with anyone else, or that he really didn't mind avoiding any partner but her. More importantly, it gave him a legitimate reason to keep tabs on any other men in her life in a way that wouldn't lead to accusations of jealousy or hidden feelings. Of course he noticed that Cuddy seemed to take advantage of their agreement to monitor him as well.

There were realities that he acknowledged some nights when she ran so late that he thought she might not show. He knew this couldn't last forever. A relationship like theirs seemed doomed to fizzle out or be replaced by a more traditional relationship with a more suited partner. Long term relationships weren't built on sex alone. He couldn't shake the feeling that she was deep in denial as she tried to protect herself from the losses she'd felt, and that he would be inevitably cut once she realized that she was avoiding the life she truly wanted. In spite of the fact that it seemed obvious that their arrangement was temporary, he found himself unable to walk away without letting it play out to its inevitable conclusion.

They often made excuses to stay, rarely admitting that they simply wanted to stay. But more often than not, sex blended into late-night dinners, movies, shared showers, and coffee at breakfast. As their interactions continued, the boundaries between their sexual, personal and professional relationships became increasingly hazy. Since things were working well enough, there seemed to be no point in trying to change them, so everything stayed roughly the same.

Wilson stopped at Cuddy's one evening and found House at her table. It was obvious that House hadn't just stopped by for a quick chat. There were a couple of nearly empty glasses and crumb-speckled plates on the table. Both House and Cuddy were barefoot and casually dressed and apparently enjoying an evening. More telling than the bare feet or casual dress or extremely laidback atmosphere was the placement of the chairs. There were four chairs around Cuddy's table, two undisturbed and placed in perfect quarters of the table, but House and Cuddy's chairs were pushed together. She leaned against the table when she sat down, her body facing him. He sat turned toward her as well, with the arm closest to her over the backrest so his posture was sort of open in her direction. Had some unseen force pushed their seats just a little closer together, it looked like they would have fit together like puzzle pieces.

Wilson knew of their meetings outside of work, but this scene was far more intimate and cozy than anything he'd been prepared for. They'd confessed to him that the relationship had physical aspects because he was already suspicious and worried before they'd embarked down that path, but they insisted that they were just 'hanging out.' Of course once he realized what was going on, Wilson was worried for entirely different reasons.

When Cuddy left the table to deal with a call from the hospital, Wilson whisper-shouted, "Do you really want me to believe that there's nothing going on here?"

"Of course there's something going on here," House bluntly answered. "I've already told you. She's already told you. Do you need it in writing?"

"Sex? That's all that's going on here? It seems like more than just sex."

"It is more than just sex. It's really great sex. Until something better comes along or one of us gets bored, we're going to keep having really great sex. Stop overcomplicating everything."

"This," Wilson pointed at the evidence of their dinner that still remained on the table between them, "doesn't look like sex."

"Of course it doesn't look like sex. It's a table."

Wilson's irritation, not only of from this particular conversation but from the entire situation between his friends as of late, was definitely starting to show. "You are both going to get hurt if you don't acknowledge what is going on here. This is already a relationship. You seem happier. She seems happier. You are together more nights than you are apart. Can't you just admit it?"

"You really need me to?"

"I need you to," Wilson explained resolutely. "Not for me…for yourself."

"Fine," House sighed, taking a deep breath as he prepared for a grand confession. "The table does look a little like sex."

"You're such an asshole," Wilson muttered as Cuddy returned.

Just a few days after Wilson's visit, House was in the middle of a differential with his team when Cuddy entered the room. He was so lost in thought that he didn't notice until she approached the table and stood next to him. He looked up at her and she stated, "I need to speak to you for a minute."

She nodded toward his office, so he grabbed his cane and followed her, trying to think of a way to avoid the discussion that was going to follow. He was convinced immediately that she was going to end it, right there in the middle of the day in his office, but, then again, he was always convinced that she was going to end it. He cringed each time he received a text or a call from her until he confirmed that she wasn't calling things off. Of course she had no idea that he had these concerns because he never said anything to her about it.

Once they were in his office, she smiled amicably at him and said, "My license and bank card are still in your wallet."

"Oh," he nodded, puffing his cheeks and breathing out a sigh of relief before he caught himself.

"What did you think I was going to say?" she asked as she noticed his reaction.

Ignoring her question, he nodded toward the conference room where his team was still sitting. Limping quickly into the room, he grabbed his backpack and pulled out his wallet. Turning his back to his team for the exchange, he gave her the cards. "See you later," she whispered, and he felt a flash of excitement simply from those few words and the ideas they provoked.

After Cuddy was gone, House returned to his team and asked, "You're sure the patient hasn't been out of the country since oh-four?"

"What did Cuddy want?" Kutner asked.

"Condoms…something about donor appreciation day," House answered absently as he repetitively slid two fingertips along a marker until he'd reach the end before he'd flip the marker around and repeat the process.

"It looked more like a credit card," Taub smugly suggested.

"Why would you give her your credit card?" Kutner asked.

House countered simply, "They're hers. They were in my wallet because she didn't want to carry her purse on my bike. Now that the great credit card mystery is cleared up, let's get back to the mystery of the rapidly deteriorating patient. Talk to her without her family in the room. She's been out of the country in the last six months."

The team didn't move, all eyes remaining on House for further explanation. Speculation about a relationship between the dean and the diagnostician had been spreading like wildfire in recent weeks. Thirteen, slightly irritated by her coworkers and their obsession with House and Cuddy's personal lives, answered, "So they're dating? It's not really that surprising." Looking at House and sharing a momentary feeling of camaraderie, she said, "Nice going, House. Have fun."

Any camaraderie that she may have felt instantly disappeared when he looked at her and sneered, "We're not dating."

Kutner folded his arms high on his chest and stubbornly shook his head at House, "You're lying about the cards. Dr. Cuddy knows of your penchant for stealing Dr. Wilson's credit cards and charging things on them. Why would she take that risk and hand them over voluntarily?"

House braced his forearms on the edge of the table and folded his hands as he replied, "But Cuddy knew I had her card, so any purchases that would have been made that weren't hers could easily be tracked to me. The people who should be worried are those who don't know that I have their cards." House glanced just briefly but very distinctly at two people: Foreman and Taub. Taub quickly fumbled for his wallet, as Foreman glared and also took a quick inventory of his cards like he didn't want to be bothered to do so.

"Fine," House said, standing and declaring as he walked toward the door, "I'll talk to the patient."

As he left, Kutner looked at Thirteen and said, "Is it just me, or did we just see what House looks like when he's happy…at least as happy as House gets?"

Later that week, minutes after his case was solved, House headed to her place. They'd barely seen each other in the previous days because he had a secret project he was working on, and his patient's condition would so rapidly shift that he never left the hospital for long. He'd missed Cuddy. He wasn't going to say it, but he knew it. Before he'd arrived, he'd already decided he was going to stay for the night and delay her return to work the next morning for as long as possible.

When he arrived she was on the phone. She signaled to him to wait a minute while she paced and chatted in her hallway. He leaned against her door, watching the way her robe moved over and around her body. He wasn't really paying attention to the conversation until he saw her posture tense. She answered, with obvious caution, "Not interested." After listening to her caller, she replied, "Because I don't want one. End of story."

He took a few steps over to her, blocking her path so she couldn't continue to pace. Whispering into her free ear without touching her, he asked, "What don't you want?"

"Mmm-hmm," she answered the person on the other end of the phone before looking up at him and mouthing, "Hello, stranger."

"You seem busy. Should I go?" he asked at a more typical volume.

Shaking her head, she mouthed, "Stay," to House and then said into her phone, "Just the TV." She gasped in the next second when he unexpectedly grabbed onto her ass and lifted her against him, walking back toward the wall. Her legs automatically lifted, wrapping around his hips while she tightened them around him. Kissing along her throat, she felt his tongue tasting and lips nipping at her skin as he moved down toward her chest. Some days the way he would push and shove to get whatever he wanted was infuriating, but, when it came to sex, his insistence could be ridiculously erotic.

He wondered if she missed him too, because she wasn't even trying to delay him. She rocked her hips against him as he took a few steps into the living room and lowered her onto the ottoman. Moving down onto his knees, his thumb traced the silky end of her robe as he looked into her eyes. He untied the robe while he stared, his eyes never leaving her face to follow their usual path all over her form. He never seemed to tire of the visual tour he'd take of her body when she was naked in front of him, but it wasn't a priority that night. Loosening the knot, he slipped the ends of the tie open and parted her robe. His peripheral vision sensed and his hands confirmed that she had absolutely nothing on under her robe, and he guessed that she must have been interrupted from her usual end of day routine by a call from someone, probably her sister, who often called mid-week evenings after the kids were asleep. It wasn't weird that he knew that anymore.

He didn't look away when his fingers caressed the shape of her body from the caps of her shoulders, down her sides, over her hips, along her legs, and down her calves until his fingers followed the arches at the bottoms of her feet. His hand curled around the back of her leg just above her ankle and began to ascend again, and he felt her knees fall open, inviting him to avoid hesitation. He watched her while he moved closer to her sex, holding her attention while his mouth disappeared between her thighs and she felt his tongue slither between her folds to find the spot he wanted.

She looked away for a moment to try to pay attention to whatever was being said by her caller, and he stubbornly stopped and rested his chin low on her belly while he waited. As soon as she looked at him for an explanation, he braced his hands on the ottoman next to her hips and moved his mouth back to her sex as he nodded. Every time she'd look away, he'd pause, waiting for her to return her attention to him.

She'd been trying to end the call for a while, eventually giving up and letting the persistent talker continue on while Cuddy ignored the conversation. Her poise was withering as her hips shifted under him, sometimes lifting, sometimes rocking to the side. As she watched House, she saw the muscles in her own thighs and stomach tensing, and she knew that if she came, she wasn't going to be able to be completely silent. She looked away again, this time wanting him to stop until she could hang up, but this time he didn't, probably because he knew she wanted him to.

"Sorry. Emergency at the hospital I gotta go," she abruptly interrupted her caller. "Talk to you later."

She ended the call and tossed her phone on the chair behind her, her head lulling back as she waited for him to continue, but now that she was ready for him, he waited for her attention again. Lifting her head, she narrowed her eyes and groaned, "Four days, House. I've been waiting four days for you to come over."

"Four whole days…however did you survive?" He grinned, feeling satisfied and pleased before his tongue smoothed over her clit, laving over the places so desperately in need of his attention that they were beginning to really ache. When she teetered right on the edge between utter frustration and crashing release, she was afraid to look away, worried that he'd stop and the tide of this orgasm would retreat too quickly or never really overcome her at all. She could already feel how amazing it was going to be if he would just continue exactly what he was doing, so she kept his gaze. His hands wrapped around the outsides of her thighs, cradling them and lifting her slightly to his mouth as he kept lapping and flicking against her until she shrieked at the height of it all, her eyes moving to the ceiling as her body reached the point where it couldn't seek any more pleasure and every maxed out nerve prayed for a break.

While she sat up, he was stripping as quickly as he could, kicking off shoes, jeans and boxers, while he pulled his shirt over his head. He didn't care that his longing for her was so obvious, but he probably wasn't capable of hiding it anymore. He lowered down, his hands bracing on the ottoman as he knelt in front of her again, pulling her hips off the edge of the furniture as he slid his length through her folds, feeling the slippery, swollen heat of her before he pushed slowly into her body. As soon as he was surrounded by her, his sole focus was on finding resolution for the discordant tension that wound through him.

He took her with demanding passion, thrusting into her as his hands surrounded her hips and refused to let go, seeking the release he didn't just want, but actually needed. Somehow finding that point of sheer pleasure was even better than what he'd hoped for, but then again, it usually was with her.

She skated her fingers over his spine as he lay on her. There was something different about him, she was certain of that. Sighing contentedly, she wondered, "So tell me…who were you just thinking about?"

He lifted his head from her chest, knowing that she thought she'd hidden the hint of possessiveness in her voice. "My boss. Jealous?" he answered. Putting his head back down, his scruff scratched her skin as he settled into a comfortable spot. The question lingered in his brain before he popped back up and suspiciously asked, "But maybe you were thinking about someone else?"

"No, not at all. It's just…you seemed more worked up than usual. I thought maybe you were inspired by someone. I'm not mad, I just wanted to know who."

"I practically forced you to look at me the entire time I went down on you. Probably hard to think about someone else with my face between your legs and you staring at me like that. As you've already pointed out, it's been four days. And you wore that shirt today that I didn't have time to properly appreciate, but I definitely noticed."

For sex that was supposed to exist outside of a romantic relationship, it was anything but impersonal. He stood, pulling her up until she was standing in front of him. He stooped slightly, lifting her until she wrapped her legs around him again and he started to limp down the hall to her room.

She felt good. Aside from the great sex, there was a certain excitement that came from being able to make House feel, in some way, less unhappy. People had been asking her if she could be the reason why he had been a bit more pleasant, at least for him. She saw it, too, the change in him recently. She rested her head against his shoulder, feeling pretty good about everything until she noticed one glaringly unusual detail. "Where's your cane?" she asked concernedly, leaning back so she could study his expression.

He kicked the door to the bedroom shut, falling with her onto her bed. "On the bike."

"How is this happening?"

He looked down at his body and answered, "It's not happening yet. Calm down, nympho."

"That's not what I mean and you know it," she retorted. "How are you walking so well without your cane? How did you kneel on the floor for that long? The sex…the difference in you…it wasn't because you were thinking about someone new, it was because your leg isn't bothering you?" she asked, sitting up, her voice full of hope.

He moved up until his head was on a pillow and answered, "Taking a new approach to pain management."

"Meditation?" she asked with shocked disbelief.

"God, no," he huffed. "New drug."

"What drug?"

"Methadone. So far, it works. Limp's still there, but the pain is practically gone."

"Are you completely insane? You're going to just ignore the risk of respiratory arrest, coma, death?"

"I'm not taking Vicodin with it. I haven't touched it for days. I'll be fine. The Vicodin was barely working anymore, and I was taking plenty. It was going to catch up with me. I don't even miss it."

"That's not a permanent solution," she warned.

"I'll worry about the next step when the time comes."

"You're acting like you switched to ibuprofen. This is methadone!"

"So it's okay for you to look for atypical ways to live your life when normal doesn't work, but it's not okay for me? You've made a very compelling argument for dealing with pain in innovative ways."

"This is my fault?"

"I'd never blame you for reducing my pain," he sarcastically countered.

"I'm glad you're not in pain, but this is dangerous. Don't you get that? Whenever someone switches from another opiate to methadone the risks skyrocket. This isn't something to play around with."

"Greatest risk is during the three or four weeks while my body adjusts, or if I try taking both at the same time. I won't take both."

"But in those three or four weeks…you could die. That's a pretty permanent condition."

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure you could find someone else to be your more than a friend."

"I can't believe you just said that," she said, angrily shaking her head.

"Don't start to pretend this is true love now, Cuddy."

"I've told you several times that you mean a lot to me, which is more than you've ever said to me."

He sat up and admitted, "This arrangement has been great. The last couple of months have been…enjoyable…but I need more—"

"You want more?" she interrupted too quickly, her face blanching as she stared with surprise, confusion and what was either hope or fear or maybe both.

He looked over, pausing before he explained, "I meant my leg. What we have is great, but fucking you doesn't fix my pain problem."

"Right," she said, either dejected or relieved. He really hated that he couldn't seem to read her. "Well, this is too risky," she redirected.

"I wasn't asking for your approval."

"I can't act like I'm fine with this."

"You don't need to be fine with this. But don't make me choose," he said so determinedly that it was clear he wasn't willing to give up the methadone.

"Fine. I'm not asking you to choose. I'm asking you to try to be a little smart while you're being incredibly stupid because I'm sure talking you out of being stupid is pointless."

"You're afraid I'm going to die in your bed some night and everyone will know what's been going on."

"If you died in my bed, half of the hospital would hold a parade in my honor," she tried to joke, but her eyes were full of concern. "I'll make you a deal. You try the methadone, but we admit you to the hospital for observation for a few weeks while you transition."

He shook his head, "I'm fine with the methadone part of your offer, but I'm not letting you admit me. I don't need to make a deal here. I'm doing it with or without your approval."

"Fine. Let me monitor you."

"What part of 'no' aren't you hearing?" he argued.

"Not at the hospital, here. I'll…monitor your vitals when you sleep and do periodic assessments."

"You're going to use hospital equipment for personal use?" he gasped exaggeratedly.

"I'll rent what I need. Look, all that I'm asking for is one month. You can sleep here at my place. You're here most nights anyway. Let me monitor you so if something happens, I can respond."

"That's a lot of trouble to go to for a fuck buddy."

"That's not what you are. You know that," she said through a clenched jaw, her hand dropping loudly onto the mattress and punctuating her frustration.

"I know all about what I'm not. I'm not your friend or your boyfriend or just an employee or a fuck buddy. We've covered what I'm not."

She responded. "Okay. If you have this all figured out, why don't you tell me how you see us? What am I to you?"

Of course he didn't reply.

She nodded at him, her eyes telling him that she'd expected that he wouldn't answer. "Our arrangement may be different, but that doesn't mean the way I feel isn't genuine."

Turning his head while still resting on the pillow, he asked, "How you feel is genuine?" After she nodded, he continued, "And what is the nature of these genuine feelings that you feel?"

She silently wrestled her thoughts, angry that he seemed so willing to push her toward a confession when he was so unwilling to disclose his own feelings or lack thereof. "I feel…" she began, pausing one last time, "like I don't want you to die. I also don't want to fight right now because I don't want you to disappear and decide to do whatever the hell you want regardless of your own safety. I'll work with you on the methadone, I'll secure your doses for you right there at the hospital, legally, by prescription. All that I'm asking is that you let me monitor you for one month. You also need someone on your team or Wilson to know what's going on and keep an eye on you at work."

His hand was resting on his stomach, and he tapped a thumb against his rib a few times before he said, "Not here. My place."

"All of my stuff is here. I need more of my stuff than you need of your stuff."

"But some of my stuff is impossible to move. No deal," he said, like the discussion was final.

"We'll alternate weeks," she continued to negotiate.

He sighed and grumbled like he wanted her to leave him alone, not letting her see the weird warming feeling that was spreading through his chest and head at her insistence. "Fine," he groaned, teasing, "I will allow you the pleasure of my company."

She answered, dryly, "Wow. Thank you."

He'd expected her to seem proud of her victory, but all he could see was her nervousness. He sat up, and bumped her shoulder with his. "You're not actually that worried about this?" he asked.

She shook her head quickly, and then, telling the most obvious lie that he'd ever witnessed, she said, "I'm not worried."

Oddly enough he didn't call her out on her lie. They leaned toward each other at the same moment, heads tilting slightly, lips meeting and parting as they hesitantly shared a slow kiss that seemed difficult to break once they'd begun. He felt her reaching for his sex, and his mind sped to the question of whether she was doing it because she wanted to, or thought he wanted her to, or if it was because they weren't very familiar with the concept of touching each other outside of a sexual context. He grabbed her wrist, and shook his head, "Not right now."

"Oh," she answered, backing up uncertainly.

"If you need me to, I could give you a—"

"No," she interjected quickly, "I'm fine."

They sat there for a lengthy, tense silence, both feeling strange about making out with the same person they'd been fucking for months. That made kissing her in this context feel inherently prohibited, so he did it again. After they parted, he stretched out in her bed, closing his eyes and, as loosely and non-possessively as possible, he curled an arm around her and tried to coax her to take the spot next to him.

"No way," she warned, "get up."

"You're kicking me out?" he asked, suddenly looking as uncertain and concerned as she had looked a few minutes earlier.

"We're going to go get a monitor for your vitals so something will wake me up if you stop breathing."

"Tonight?"

"Right now. We need to go before you fall asleep."

"I thought you weren't worried…," he suspiciously accused.

"I won't be once we have the monitor," she snipped back.

Squinting right through her, he added, "You sure?"

She grabbed clothes from her dresser and closet. As she walked past him toward the bathroom, she said in an overtly caring way, "God, you're a pain in my ass."

After the bathroom door shut, he shouted after her, smirking, "Just remember, you're the one who wanted to stay with me for the next month, roomie."