Many thanks to Brighid45 and maineac for support and advice!

This is his punishment. Cuddy saw to it, although of course she pretended that she was actually doing him a favor by sending him to a conference on Nephrology & Therapeutics. As if she were paying for it out of her own pocket.

He had told a mother that her son was faking his oh-so-excruciating back pain to get out of PE. She was upset and went straight to Cuddy because he had accused her precious bundle of joy of lying. Now he was paying for this and other assorted sins Cuddy has kept track of over the years.

It's February, it's cold, and House is in Baltimore, on his own. He recognized a few names at registration and decided to stay clear of anyone who could recognize him. So he has hidden his name tag in his pocket and kept his head down. His name is down for a handful of lectures only, no workshops and no discussion groups. He signed in but then skipped three out of five. If Cuddy wants to check up on him, she can. He sat at the back for the other two.

It's late now, and he is on his way back from the last presentation - the only one he was actually interested in. How could anyone make Experimental Nephrology boring? He would've said it was impossible, but apparently he is wrong. This presentation had been hyped as one of the highlights of the event and is probably the main reason Cuddy sent him here in the first place.

And now it's late, and the lobby is full of cheery and boozy conference attendees who are about to invade the hotel's restaurant for a late dinner. House is hungry, and he urgently needs at least two fingers of something with a higher proof than the last speaker's IQ. But he has no intention of joining the rabble in the restaurant or the bar. His room will have to do – even if the mini bar is poorly stocked and the room service menu reads like the daily specials board in the PPTH cafeteria.

In order to avoid the crowds in the lobby, he chooses the long way to the elevator that will carry him up to his room on the fourth floor.

The basement is deserted at this hour, so he takes his time. Not that he could rush things anyway. He is sore and stiff from sitting in that cramped auditorium all afternoon. And it hadn't even been worth his time.

He passes a spa area he didn't know existed. It had probably been part of Cuddy's spiel to persuade him to go – before she decided that he was going anyway, no matter what. He vaguely remembers her waving a brochure in his face. The one he had tossed in her assistant's trash can right after leaving her office.

He stops in front of a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, attracted by the bluish-green light from behind the curtains. On a whim he tries the door, ignoring the 'CLOSED' sign. Somebody shouts, "Sorry, we're closed! Back open at 7 am tomorrow."

When he doesn't reply, a girl comes out of what he assumes is an office with a big glass window. A woman, he corrects himself as she comes closer and he can get a better look.

"We're closed for today." She glances at his leg, then looks away. "Besides, I can't let anyone in here while there's no supervision."

He may be tired but it's hard to miss that quick look and the slightly embarrassed turning away. House changes his stance and leans on his cane even more openly. "Oh, you think I'll slip and hurt my leg? Guess what, it's already happened. Can't get much worse."

The girl drops her gaze. "Sorry… I only meant…"

"Don't say sorry. You're not wrong. I injure myself here now, you lose your job. Unless I keep quiet if that happens. And, guess what, I'm not one to sue."

She says nothing for a moment, just looks him up and down. He is tempted to say something snarky but decides to wait her out. It's usually a good method to get a reaction. Second only to being brash and abrasive.

"You can use the pool while I'm finishing up here if you like." So she has made up her mind.

"What makes you think I've come in for a swim?"

She frowns, impatient now. "Why else would you come in here? I'm sure it's not for the scenery, and we're a bit out of the way for anyone to be just passing."

House shrugs.

He could tell her that he was indeed that, just passing. But that would mean further explanations and a conversation he doesn't want to have. In fact, he is here because he is trying to get away from small talk, not indulge in it.

She nods, accepts his non-explanation without a question. "I can't turn the lights back on, though, or more people will come in. Are you okay with the pool lights only?"

He glances sideways. The water is completely still, and he can clearly see the underwater lights.

"Sure."

She is about to turn around when she notices that he is carrying nothing in his hands besides his cane.

"Oh, do you need a bathing suit? We have a small selection for sale. Have a look at the rack in the corner."

Of course he didn't bring his suit. He isn't even sure he still owns one. None that he would wear nowadays anyway.

And that's the crux. He turns away from the rack after a quick look through the offerings.

"Got anything a bit longer in the leg?"

The girl stops picking up towels from the lounge chairs.

"What, you mean shorts? Why?"

She turns around. The lights are low, so it's hard to tell, but he is sure she just flushed bright red.

"Sorry." She is quick to fix her mistake. "I think we've got some in the back. Let me go and check."

When she comes back she hands him a pair of hideously flowered shorts. "Here, this one should fit."

He can't help but poke her a little. "What makes you so sure?"

She smiles and suddenly looks impossibly young and impossibly healthy.

"You're tall and slim, how hard can it be? We have two sizes: tent-size and yours."

He snorts and grabs the shorts.

Following her directions, he finds the changing rooms down a short corridor decorated with fake plants.

Changing in the tight confines of the cubicle is a cumbersome and lengthy process, and he regrets coming. He is starkly reminded of why he never goes to places like this. Life is awkward enough; he doesn't need this. When he has finally managed to shed all his clothes and put on the horrid shorts, he notices two things; they fit perfectly and they don't quite cover his scar.

He stands there for a moment and stares down his legs.

He doesn't do this.

But he has changed now, the lights in the pool area are low and, with a bit of luck, the girl will be too busy to pay him any attention. Besides, the empty pool with its cool bluish-green underwater lights triggered something in him earlier.

He can't leave now.

So he takes a deep breath and picks up his cane.

When House comes back to the pool area, the lounge chairs are all pushed back to one side, there is a big pile of used towels near the door, and the girl has disappeared.

He carefully picks his way to the pool. The floor is wet; with every step, he makes sure to place his cane in a safe spot. Despite what he said earlier, he can't afford to slip. He isn't about to risk an injury, here, of all places.

Halfway down the steps to the pool he stops when, suddenly, piano music floats through the silence. The girl must have turned on the audio system. It probably blasts horrid spa muzak during the day. But not now. This is different. A few more bars, and he knows it's a Beethoven piano sonata. It's one of the later ones, but he isn't sure which. This is a good recording, not the daily tape to be played over and over again. In fact, it isn't just good. This is a great recording. Someone picked this especially. It's not what he would have expected. He looks over at the window to the office. All he can see is the crown of the girl's head; probably bent over some paperwork. Looking at her earlier, he would have said she would pick some pop or rock compilation to give her a boost at the end of her day. This is surprising. He can see her head move a little with the music, just a slight inclination, a swaying here or there. He imagines her finishing the day's work in peace and quiet, without any interruptions, just accompanied by Beethoven.

House smiles to himself. Nice.

He continues his slow descent into the pool. The heating has probably been turned off a while ago, but the temperature isn't uncomfortable. He pauses for a moment, the water reaching up to his hips. Then he eases into the water.

He just floats on his back for a while, eyes closed, and listens to the music – slightly distorted because part of his head is under water. It is still beautiful, though.

The ease with which he can move surprises him. It shouldn't. Years ago, there had been a few physio sessions in the pool. As with many other things, he hadn't kept it up. At the time, all it reminded him of were the things that were now out of reach. Running. Golf. Lacrosse. Basketball. Limitations. This is different. This is actually easy and relaxing.

He then tries a few strokes. He feels lopsided at first, unbalanced, until he gets into a rhythm and stops trying to keep his right leg still. He lets go of the tension, concentrates on moving his other limbs and lets the leg float and flop along. There's only a little twinge every now and then. He begins to move along at a steady pace. Face towards the ceiling, he watches the light play on the tiles up there. Movement but distinct shapes. Like cells under a microscope.

For the first time in years, he isn't fighting against his body, against its weakness and stubbornness. He isn't trying to subdue or force it into behaving. And, as if he is being rewarded, for once his body isn't obstinate. He feels sleek and long – and strong. Flip turns are out of the question; he won't even attempt one. As a result, his turns are clumsy and slow to start with, but once he accepts that, decides that this isn't about speed, isn't about winning, he stops caring. And once he stops caring, even the turns develop. They are still far from elegant, but a routine evolves, and his body figures out its own way of negotiating the maneuver. Turn, push off with the good leg, float for a moment, then start moving along the length of the pool again. His strokes slow down, become less hectic, more balanced.

His mind goes back to a time when he used to go for a run several times a week. He had never been out to beat a certain time, not anyone's, not even his own. What mattered was the way his body adjusted to speed, temperature, terrain; the way his heart rate went up, sweat ran down his back. The pumping of his legs almost hypnotized him, freed his mind from having to grasp and analyze every detail around him. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he now finds this rhythm again, and when he realizes it, several lanes in, with the ceiling tiles floating along above him, he nearly weeps with joy. He relishes the burn in his muscles. He can feel his lungs expand as he is catching up with his own speed, breathing faster.

He forgets about time; this isn't about getting anywhere.

"You might want to try and relax your head backwards just a little bit. It'll give you a sleeker line, less resistance. It will also put less stress on your neck."

House is surprised to hear the girl because he hadn't seen her come out of her office. He doesn't interrupt his flow, doesn't stop. But a few strokes in, he relaxes his neck muscles just a bit, as she suggested.

She is right. He smiles.

Even though he knows she is out there somewhere, watching him, he continues for another couple of laps. But eventually his ridiculous lack of stamina gets the better of him, and he pulls up to the edge of the pool, just below where she's standing.

"I've never seen anyone get the hang of it so quickly."

House snorts. "Do I look like I just learned to swim?"

"No, clearly not. I meant…"

"I know what you meant." His good mood suddenly turns sour. Getting the hang of it despite your disability, that's what she meant.

"No, I don't think you do," she asserts herself. He looks up. She has her hands on her hips and her eyes narrowed.

"Do tell." He can't quite keep the nasty undertone out of his voice.

She crouches down in an obvious effort not to talk down to him. One point to the Beethoven-loving pool girl.

"I know what I'm talking about. Even a slight change in body shape or function throws out the rest. It takes time to adjust to any change. I've seen athletes take weeks to get back into shape after a pulled muscle. You've got a great rhythm going." She smiles a little and nods encouragingly. "You should keep it up."

Chance would be a fine thing. No way would he go to a public pool in Princeton.

"I don't need a cheerleader."

Pool girl sighs and gets up.

"No, apparently not. What you do need, though, is to get out of the pool because I really have to close up now."

All good things come to an end. Even her patience, apparently. He could do with a nice long soak in the Jacuzzi now but asking her to open it for him would be more than pushing his luck. So he pulls up to the steps and stops there for a moment. She must have seen his hesitation because she turns her back to fiddle with the lock to the office. It's so conspicuous that he almost laughs out loud.

House gets out and dries off with a towel she's left out for him by the steps. He looks up when she turns around but isn't quick enough at covering up with the towel. This time she doesn't look away. The low light works in his favor, but she is close enough to get a good view. He gives up the pretense and lets his arms drop at his side, towel in hand. He won't look away, though, and keeps his eyes on her face. She looks at his leg for what seems a lot longer than it probably is. There's no pity. All he sees is interest. She finally looks up and asks, "Are you finished? I'm done with my paperwork, and I really need to go now. It's been a long day, and I didn't even get a lunch break.'

House's own stomach rumbles in response. The last thing he ate was a stale chicken sandwich this afternoon. He towels his hair for a moment, then rakes through it with his fingers. He looks at her standing by the door; one leg cocked, her hair tied back in a slightly untidy ponytail. Yes, she's had a long day.

So has he.

He throws the towel onto a chair.

"There's a Thai restaurant around the corner. Join me for dinner."

She laughs. "I know for a fact they don't have a dress code, but don't you think you should get changed first?"

"I take that as a yes then. Give me five minutes."

He makes his way back towards the changing area, forcing himself to go slow. It really wouldn't do to slip before an audience. Just before disappearing from sight he calls back over his shoulder, "Considering I need five just to get there and back, better make that ten."

He hears her laugh just as he turns the corner.

What has he just done? After a day spent in a crowded auditorium, he had been looking forward to being alone finally. He was going to enjoy a few drinks and some bad room service food. Instead, he is about to go out for dinner with a gorgeous girl who is way out of his league. He will have to make small talk and sound interesting. Normal even. On the other hand, the food can only be better than the offerings from room service, and he is also sure the restaurant will serve alcohol. Worst-case scenario, he will have something nice to look at while he eats and gets drunk. And maybe he could book it all under expenses and make Cuddy pay. Buoyed by the adrenalin from the swim and her laugh, he gets dressed in what is record time these days.

The next morning, he hits the snooze button twice before nature's call gets too strong and he has to get out of bed – at least for as long as it takes to get to the bathroom, take care of business and return under the covers.

Back in bed, he takes two Vicodin to deal with the unusual assortment of pains and aches this morning. They're interesting because he hasn't been sore from physical exercise in years. Add to that a mild headache, and chemical aid is definitely called for. And he didn't even get anywhere close to drunk last night.

The evening had turned out a lot better than he'd hoped. Pool girl was good company and didn't seem to expect House to provide entertainment. She explained that she was a music teacher in between proper jobs which satisfied his curiosity about the Beethoven sonata. The silence that followed while they both shoveled their food wasn't in the least bit awkward. And the food was good. Almost as good as the beer – it was ice cold and went well with the spicy dishes they had ordered.

A call from the front desk finally shakes off the last remnants of sleep.

"Dr. House, this is Shelly at the conference center. We're going through all attendees booked for flights later today. Due to last night's heavy snow fall and continuing high winds, your return flight has been cancelled. Your room reservation has been extended for another day as you probably won't be able to leave before tomorrow. This will be charged back to you and your employer. We have added some additional discussion groups and workshops to the schedule; I'm about to email you the particulars. Enjoy your extra day in Baltimore!"

Halfway through her monologue he makes it out of bed and up to the window. He pulls the blackout curtains back just a little. It's not a hoax; there's at least a foot of snow out there.

A whole day full of workshops to avoid lies ahead of him.

Enjoy your extra day in Baltimore.

House grins. He might just do that.

The pool should be open by now.