A/N-This story begins after Top Secret, during Season 3. After that episode, it's completely AU. This is a short story, 4 chapters, I'll update as quickly as I can. I don't want to try to run two stories at once, but I can't stop thinking about this one, so I have to get it down on paper. I will still continue updating 'Preservation.' Hope you enjoy.

I always felt like things were so much simpler back in Season 3, before a lot of the more severe hurts of Seasons 5 and onward. It seemed like so much more was possible back then. Thanks for reading!

Disclaimers- I don't own any of the characters of House, MD.

Also, certain chapters are heavy on sexual content, so here is the warning now and it is for the whole story. For people who do not enjoy stories with such content, you will likely not enjoy this story.

-UPDATES are dependent upon whether or not I have power after Hurricane Sandy comes through. There may be delays this week if power outages are severe.

-The Envelope-

He had flirted with Cuddy, he acknowledged that much. It was by far the most direct reference to their one night stand that he had ever made openly to her. Probably the part that interested him most was the realization that she had flirted back. Her words indicated her disinterest, but her body language screamed of possibility and her confident, coquettish departure perfectly embodied the youthful exuberance she had displayed back in the days when they had first seduced one another. His memory was perfectly clear, their seduction was mutual. He could feel the warmth along his neck and face as he flushed at the memories, and couldn't deny the deep throb of desire that threatened to arouse him at the mere thought of feeling her naked form writhing and wiggling against him between his arms. This was so much a part of why he both needed and avoided her.

He got to his door, still pondering all that he'd seen that day one week ago, and nearly slipped when the tip of his cane plunked down on the thick manila envelope that had been slipped under the door. He cursed as he flung his backpack over the back of the sofa and reached his long arm down to bring the envelope up from the floor. He frisbee'd the envelope onto the coffee table and went to the kitchen, pouring himself a strong drink and limping to the sofa. He clicked on the TV, taking a few sips of his drink while his eyes drifted with interest to the envelope.

He picked it up, sat back, rested his heels on the coffee table and ripped it open, sliding the contents out onto his lap. He tried to figure why he was looking at the case file he was looking at, and in moments he realized that it was his own. There were scans, a description of his infarction, his surgery, his condition since the surgery, and statements from surgeons and doctors testifying to the fact that he was in nearly constant pain. He couldn't figure out why anyone wanted to tell him what he already clearly knew himself. He pondered the materials in front of him as he rubbed the thigh that felt like it ached even more from reading the reasons why there was pain in the first place. Beneath the case file was another, smaller envelope, which he opened to find a letter announcing that he was accepted as a patient for an experimental procedure to alleviate pain, a plane ticket, waivers that needed to be completed and signed, and instructions to follow before arrival.

House felt stunned as he realized exactly what he had been accepted into. This wasn't a trial using faked scans or pretenses; this was a program accepting him as a patient in chronic pain, worthy of a risky trial procedure being conducted in a few weeks in Germany. His mind quickly flicked through the questions at hand. There really was no doubt, he would take part in the very risky trial that clearly couldn't do anything to strengthen his mangled thigh, but had the distinct possibility of removing or lessening his pain. The more interesting question at that moment was who set him up.

His first thought went to his fellows. Upon quick examination, it made sense that perhaps, out of guilt or even pity, they tried to make amends by enrolling him in a program that was similar to the one they had disqualified him from. It was easy to see that it couldn't be them. It looked as if the entire process took only days, and he knew that it took enormous clout to pull strings like that, and he guessed that someone with a significant amount of money took care of the expenses that he clearly didn't have to pay. His mind next wondered if it could be Wilson, but the same facts that excluded his fellows from the list also excluded his friend. It was possible that a wealthy patient or the family of a patient arranged the trial out of gratitude. He dismissed that option just as quickly, realizing that most patients and families didn't understand how much pain he was in, and they certainly couldn't get access to his medical records. There was only one option: Cuddy.

Cuddy had the influence to pull some strings, the right connections, and was well-liked within the medical community. Cuddy also had money, and enough guilt to want to facilitate his enrollment. Of course parts of that still didn't make sense. She never said anything about his falsified tumor. She never even mentioned the ruse, never admonished him for misleading her or others, never rebuked him for causing her concern. He could see the day after she found out about his ploy, a sense of sadness. He could sense that she felt betrayed, but for some reason didn't want to let on that she had any reaction at all to what had happened. It would have been simpler if she just would have attacked with the fury of an administrator wronged.

He hoisted himself up and went immediately to his bike. There was no thought or plan, but after a short ride, he was staring at her warmly lit window. Hesitating for a few seconds when he found himself at the end of her walkway, staring at her door, he couldn't silence the wonder in his mind. He had to know why.

He pounded his cane on her door repeatedly until she opened it. It was ten at night, but she was still dressed in jeans and a warm blue top. She brushed her hair back, then crossed her arms, trying to look innocent, but everything about her instantly confirmed his suspicion that she was the guilty one who had enrolled him in the trial.

"What do you need, House?" she asked, with attempted irritation. "You want me to sign off on something, you needed to confirm what I was up to, or are you just here for a hug and an ass grab?"

"I don't need an approval…I'm always interested in whatever you are doing…and if you want to start with an ass grab, I'm willing to do my part," he said as he flexed and stretched his hands, cracking his knuckles.

She laughed in her throaty, almost seductive way and said, "What do you want?"

"I want to know why."

"Why…what?"

"I know you signed me up. Why?"

"For what…I don't know what you are-"

"Weird. I thought you knew me. Did you really think I'd just accept the gift and chalk it up to the kindness of strangers? It's a great puzzle. How did they do it so quickly, who did it…perhaps more interestingly why did they do it? Did you honestly think you could do something like that, and that I wouldn't chase that answer endlessly until I had it?"

Cuddy shook her head no, fully prepared to deny and deflect, when she unexpectedly surrendered, "Are you going to do it?"

The look of concern was palpable. In some way, the empathy she seemed to have in that moment hurt him, because it felt so unfamiliar. "Why did you do it?" he pressed unrelentingly. "Is this guilt? I don't blame-"

"It's not guilt," she interrupted.

He stepped closer, perilously closer. "Then why?"

Her hands were folded nervously in front of her and she reached a punctuating finger forward, just enough so that he could feel her brush against his shirt. "First, tell me you'll do it. Tell me you will try it."

He leaned down, his face only inches from hers. "Invite me in," he whispered.

She shivered, obviously, overtly, and straightened herself, "Can't. I have a date."

He smirked, "No you don't. It's late. Too late. So either you were stood up, and you're holding out hope, or there is no date."

"There is a date," she said assuredly.

"Then you better hurry up and tell me why…or do you want to go through the uncomfortable scenario of introducing me to another potential suitor…who will obviously see that he doesn't measure up to me."

"I overheard…your conversation with Wilson the other day. You couldn't urinate…I felt…"

"Not peeing has nothing to do with the pain," he said with an exaggerated eye roll.

"It probably has to do with the Vicodin. Which has to do with the pain. Why didn't you come to me?"

"And tell you what? That I couldn't pee? Then soon you'll be calling me to…whine about cramps. We aren't friends like that, Cuddy."

He could see the edge of her collarbone rising along the collar of her shirt when she breathed, a strangely erotic detail. She looked both nervous and maybe even a little turned on. For a moment he wondered what she'd do if he closed that bare gap between them and kissed her lips. He lowered just a bit more, leaning against the frame of the door with his shoulder so he was near enough to kiss her, or to be kissed, should she be the one to initiate such a bold move. "Are you going to do it?" she asked again.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," she nodded with bold and certain affirmation, and then turned her face up toward his in a way that was practically daring him to kiss her. He knew that she knew exactly what she was doing. The tension that had been building between them was unmistakable. He thought about her often, admitting openly that she was the perfect fantasy to get off to in the shower, objectifying her, occasionally even to her face. The things he didn't admit were far more troublesome. The fact that he was so near her and wanted so badly to feel her soft lips pressed against him. That fact was more troubling. The fact that she was willingly only a thin slice of air away from him and certainly wasn't backing away was equally troublesome. He wanted to taste her, to feel her warm, smaller body against his front, maybe feel her hands reaching for him, pulling him closer.

Most of all, he wanted to understand.

She moved in closer and his pulse thundered in his ears and much to his irritation, he could already feel the stirrings of physical arousal. She hadn't even touched him, except for the tiniest brush of a punctuating finger that he could barely feel against his shirt, but he had to admit that perhaps that was part of the fun. The torment. The game. She moved closer, and he finally allowed himself to accept that her kissing him was going to happen. Her lips were practically on his and he could feel his eyelids barely begin to drift shut when she said, "It does matter. It matters to me. Are you going to do it?"

His eyes opened fully again and he nodded, a bit dumber and less consciously guarded for the blood lost from his brain. He cleared his throat, "Yea."

She smiled, stepped her body even closer, if that was possible, and said, "Good."

He expected a taunt in her voice, which he didn't find. The simple response, 'good,' was spoken in a way that sounded like relief, almost happiness, but not victory.

He breathed, they could feel each other breathing. When he smelled toothpaste or mouthwash or something minty on her breath he was reminded of their circumstance. "Your date…might feel a little extra threatened if he shows up and you're making out with another guy on your doorstep."

"Are we making out?" she asked playfully. "I seem to remember making out being a little different than whatever it is that we are doing."

He smirked, at least fifty retorts floating through his head. "We definitely seem close enough…it wouldn't take much effort to turn what this is now…into something else."

He thought he could hear his heartbeat's thump in his words and tried harder to appear at ease. He continued, as evenly as he could, "It would definitely look suspicious. Like…maybe…something was about to happen. Or had just finished happening. I just know that, if I was picking a woman up for an actual date, I wouldn't want to see another guy in the position that I am in with you. Standing so…closely…intimately…obviously maintaining your undivided attention."

He thought he had her, that she was on the precipice of admitting that she didn't have a date. He wondered if she was going to invite him inside at that point, or admit that maybe she was a little scared to invite him inside. He both wanted the invitation, and feared it himself. He knew, he was every bit as scared to receive such an invitation as she was to extend it. It was a constant dance with them, pulling and pushing, wanting and rejecting. Neither knew how to move beyond such moments. Neither knew how to stop their progression, or even knew if they really would stop it if they knew how. Either way, at the exact moment when he knew he was about to call her bluff, he heard a car door slam behind him. For a second, he looked surprised, then hurt, then said, "If he's going to hit me, at least warn me."

She smiled, "Who said it's a 'he' I'm having a date with?"

House's thoughts whirled for a moment when he heard someone quickly coming up the walkway. "Hi," the woman said immediately. "I didn't realize I was coming at a bad time."

He turned his head over his shoulder without changing the position of his body to see a woman grinning devilishly at him. "I'm Julia. Who are you?"

"Julia?" he asked, "As in Julia Cuddy?"

"Formerly," she corrected. "I'm married now." The woman was looking him over, definitely not unapprovingly, and then she nodded, "You…are House…aren't you?"

He turned to Cuddy, victoriously, "So you've mentioned me?"

"You may have come up," Cuddy said, trying to appear calm. "A lot of my employees come up in conversation."

"Yea," Julia said with a slight giggle, "but this is the first one I've caught you fooling around with on your front step…or anywhere else…"

"We were not fooling around," Cuddy responded, feigning disgusted horror.

House turned back to Cuddy. He was still leaning down, and although Cuddy had stepped back a bit, she was still closer than what he had expected. "I should go," she said as she felt herself blushing.

"I'm…gonna wait inside," Julia said, smirking while she passed her sister and disappeared inside.

House looked back at Cuddy cockily, ready to taunt her for mentioning him, for almost kissing him, and she looked down nervously. "It hurts really badly? Doesn't it?"

The smile disappeared from his face and he nodded, "Yea."

"All of the time?" she asked sadly.

"Pretty much," he said with a tone of acceptance.

"I don't want you to…hurt constantly."

"So it is guilt," he said, observing but not taunting.

"No," she said, shaking her head adamantly. "It's not guilt. Can't I just…want you to not hurt?"

His only answer was a doubtful look.

"So you really do think I'm a…heartless bitch. Someone who can…see your pain and not feel empathy or compassion?"

She was hurt, the flirtation gone.

"You still think a placebo would help? I think…that…you just think I'm just looking for a fix. Maybe I'm not really in constant…agonizing pain."

She looked away, avoiding his gaze for so long that he thought maybe she wasn't ever going to answer. "There have been times when I've underestimated how much you hurt. I'm…sorry. But I'm not a heartless bitch who's devoid of empathy."

"I didn't say-"

"Forget it. It's OK," Cuddy interrupted, shrugging it off. "You want to know why. And that is why. I don't want your life to be only about hurt…after I overheard your conversation with Wilson, it really made me think. About how your life is about the pain and the ways to try to avoid pain. I want your life to be more, and I don't see how it can while you are in constant pain. I really…hope it helps you. Even a little."

He watched, more confused than ever, as Cuddy retreated into the safety of her home and steadily pressed the door shut. It didn't slam, but he heard the click and he even thought he heard the sounds of Cuddy padding down the hall to her sister.

He lay in bed when the sun was rising the next morning, staring at the ceiling, reaching down to rub his thigh. He couldn't shake the feeling that he wanted to know exactly why she had done that for him, and he felt it was so much more than what she had let on during their conversation. His leg hurt. In the few hours since he came home he paced, took a hot bath and popped extra Vicodin while sipping his drink and nothing seemed to alleviate the chronic ache. The pain was at a high for him, a horrible combination of aches, like a seizing muscle and a raw exposed nerve undergoing a simultaneous onslaught of unpleasant stimuli.

He sat on the edge of his bed pushing roughly downward into his leg. He knew part of his displeasure that morning, every bit as real as his leg, was his need for her. He wanted her in ways that simply couldn't be sated by getting off in the shower. He could jerk off a hundred times and still feel the urgent and raw ache that accompanied thoughts of her. The wanting was omnipresent, and he saw no way of resolving that tension in a way that wouldn't be catastrophic.

The problem was even larger than the pain in his leg, or the ache that consumed most of the rest of his body, it was her gesture. The fact that she acknowledged his pain, and then wanted to do something to make it better. She went far out of her way to try to help him. It wasn't an empty nod to his pain, it was real. Even better, and worse, was the empathy in her eyes. He could see her reaction was beyond guilt. She really did feel hurt at his pain. He wasn't sure if having her acknowledge the truth was touching or horrifying. He wasn't sure if having her empathy made it hurt more or less. He wasn't sure if the possibility that maybe she wanted him was exciting or petrifying.

Frustrated by his own pain both emotionally and physically, he tried to decide what he actually knew. He knew that it hurt and he was going to do something to try stop that hurt. He knew he was going to show up for that trial in Germany. He knew that there was a chance that things could change.

Cuddy woke in the morning to an insistent alarm. The previous night, her sister stayed with her until the early hours of morning. Her sister finally had a few minutes away from her screaming baby at home for the two of them to plan a wedding shower for a mutual friend over a bottle of wine.

Getting up and showering, she continued to replay the events of the last evening. She still couldn't decide if House was toying with her, if he liked her or if he hated her. She couldn't help but wonder if he actually wanted her, and at the same time, if she actually wanted him. It always seemed that if they could turn off the persistent attraction between the two of them, they could somehow avoid the perpetual ebb and flow that always seemed to push them steadily closer while keeping them apart.

She groaned her frustration at the mirror aloud while she pondered their conundrum. Cuddy was partially dressed in her robe and underwear when she ran to the kitchen to have coffee and a quick breakfast.

Since she was already running late, she was pleased when she smelled the aroma of coffee flooding her home that she remembered to set the timer on her coffee pot the night before. She went immediately to the pot, reaching into the cabinet for a mug with one hand and grabbing the handle of the decanter with another, only snapping out of autopilot when she realized that the decanter lifted too easily, it was too light. She looked down to see that half of the pot was empty.

"I helped myself. Do you always treat guests like this?" she heard from behind her.

Cuddy jumped, clattering the pot onto the counter, spinning around, gasping. "You have absolutely no concept of appropriate boundaries, do you? Fuck, House you scared me half to death! Why…can't you just call like everybody else!"

He stood from his seated position at her kitchen table and approached her. "Because I'm not like everyone else," he answered simply.

She was leaning at the spot where the counter tops met, the corner near the sink, and he could actually see her breath hitch when he came closer. He hooked his cane on the back of one of the chairs, and took the remaining few steps cautiously toward her. His right hand met the countertop directly next to her, his arm almost brushing her side. Once he was in place, he looked off in the distance, casually asking, "Have fun with your sister?"

She nodded.

He added, "I didn't get a chance to thank you. For signing me up for the trial. For setting up…everything."

She nodded again, wordlessly, breathing heavily at his closeness. "It's not a problem."

"Do I make you nervous?" he asked gently.

"No," she answered, determined.

"You look nervous. Or…tense."

"You startled me, what do you expect," she stoically defended.

"I wanted to finish our discussion."

"Which discussion?"

"The one your sister interrupted. The one where…you were going to tell me exactly why you did this for me."

"I told you."

"No you didn't. Not really," he accused.

"Do I have to have some hidden agenda…an ulterior motive?"

"If you don't, then you should have no problem telling me exactly why you did that."

"You are so infuriating. Do you really think I like seeing you in pain? Do you think it doesn't matter to me?"

"I think you feel guilty."

"I don't. Maybe I do. A little. But guilt aside."

"I've been in pain for years. Why start to care now?"

"I didn't start to care now," she said, angrily slipping away and going to fill her mug.

"That's how it looks from my end. If you didn't just start to care now, then what's changed?"

Cuddy was facing the pot, drumming her fingers on the counter. "Just forget it," she ordered. "I probably have some horrible hidden motive…I'm like that."

"No," he said resolutely, "It's not that. And I can't just forget it. I'm physically incapable of just forgetting it. What's changed?"

"You have!" she almost screamed. Then she was walking toward him, passionately angry. "You have changed. You've never really…valued your life despite all of your attempts to look like a narcissistic asshole. But now…these last few months…you've been insanely reckless, the suicide attempt…"

"There was no suicide attempt," he huffed defiantly.

"Yea. There was. You know yourself. You know Vicodin. You are a fucking doctor. I'm sure you know exactly how close you can get, and I saw your tox results. You weren't anywhere near close to 'oops I made a miscalculation' levels. Besides…even if you were…you don't make mistakes like that. You take risks…sometimes insane ones. But you don't make stupid miscalculations. I see you…increasingly unconcerned with whether or not you survive. At some point, I realized that these things are indicative of exactly how much pain you must be in. And that scares me."

"You are reading way too much into isolated events."

"You can't…possibly be serious," she responded.

"I've been fine lately."

"You haven't. You've been taking so much Vicodin that you couldn't pee. I heard the whole damn conversation, House. If you had a problem, why didn't you come to me?"

"If you heard the conversation, why didn't you come to me?" he countered.

"I went to Wilson."

"Behind my back."

"I walked in after you spoke to him and asked what I could do to help you. He said nothing. He said you had to stop taking the Vicodin. He said that…if I approached you, you'd rebuff…deny…pull away."

"I'm not a child for you and Wilson to watch over."

"You're doing those things now. Like you did last night. When I ask you something personal…you deny, rebuff, deflect."

He looked away.

She caught his gaze, standing close, "You wanted to know why I set that up. And this is why. You matter. I hate…seeing you hurt. And I…hate seeing how things are so quickly getting worse. Where will you be in two years? In five? Will you live to ten? Then I thought about the study. About…all you must have gone through to…fake all of that."

"You never said anything about that either. Not to me," he said, his voice raising.

"Neither did you. You never…apologized. You led me to believe you were dying…and you had no remorse."

"You didn't seem terribly upset."

"Because you don't deal with people having emotions involving you very well. I didn't want to upset you when I thought you had cancer, so when I first heard…I tried to be calm about it. And then it's…all a lie…and you don't come to me. No apology…no explanation. Don't you think that hurt me?"

"I had no way of knowing it did. You didn't mention it."

"I'm mentioning it now," she said, frustrated and tired. "You hate that I care about you. About whether or not you're in pain."

"You care, hunh?" he asked, disbelieving.

"Yes," she said, daring his objection.

"You care about me?"

"Yes"

"As an employee"

"Partially"

"Partially?"

"And as…you," she said, swallowing noticeably.

"Really. So we're friends?"

"I hope so"

"Do you …completely distrust all of your friends?"

"I don't distrust you."

"You just go behind my back."

"Because you don't trust me," she argued.

"You don't trust me either."

"I do," she insisted.

"How much?" House asked as he stepped closer, angling her so that she was again wedged between his body and the counter.

"Very much," she said, swallowing.

"Then why do you look so nervous?" he asked, taking one of her hands into both of his and feeling along her wrist to confirm what he could see from the pulse in her neck. Her heart was racing.

"Because I don't want this conversation to end wrong and it will. It always does."

He nodded, thinking quietly, "So you aren't nervous because I kind of have you trapped here? Between me and the counter? After all, according to you I'm a bit crazy…imbalanced…suicidal. And you're stuck here…alone with me."

"You're a bigger danger to yourself than to anyone around you," she whispered, her eyes once again meeting his boldly.

His fingers wrapped around her, slowly clasping her wrist and directing her hand between her body and the counter. Watching her for any signs of fear, he noticed her eyes were trained on his face. She was nervous, but didn't look frightened in the least. So he lifted her other hand, bringing it to his chest and running his thumb along her palm.

"You aren't scared," he affirmed, "But you do seem…nervous."

"I told you I'm not scared of you," she replied.

"But you are nervous."

He watched her eyes move across his face and he could tell that she was considering her answer. He moved her other wrist behind her, pinning that one too between her body and the counter, and waiting for an answer. She started to look away and he brought his hand to her chin, just barely touching her to lift her face back to his. "So that means…that you trust that I won't hurt you physically, but you're worried I'll hurt you…other ways?" he asked.

"Doesn't that go both ways? You don't even trust me enough to believe that I don't want you to be in pain. What the fuck does that say?" She looked into his eyes. "I wish I could make you believe it."

His mind fired and misfired with thoughts that were scattered and confused, and he could see in her eyes that not only his pain, but his vulnerability actually impacted her. "Make you see that…people do care," she continued. "Make you see that…I care. Instead I try to do something…decent for you, and all you can think is that I'm trying to somehow…manipulate you…play a game. Is that what you think?"

He shook his head no, while his mind continued to flutter. On the surface, he was completely in control, had her hands pressed behind her back, had her pinned in front of him, and yet he was still completely out of control. He let go of one hand, moved his hand steadily up her arm to her elbow, from her elbow to her shoulder, but she kept her hands willingly behind her back, even after he let go. His hand rested at the top of her shoulder, his fingers against the back of her neck and the base of her skull, so he trusted as she did: he let go of her other hand. Still she kept both hands behind her, her breasts pressed forward even as he leaned his chest closer to hers. He brought his other hand up similarly, feeling her pulse in her neck under his thumbs. She was unsettled, excited, more nervous than he thought he had ever seen her. He moved steadily forward while his hands moved farther up to hold her face firmly in place while his lips met hers.

His lips were so much softer than she'd remembered; hers were soft, full and sweet to the taste. Noting that her hands were still where he had left them, that she didn't remove them from the space behind her to push him away, he allowed his tongue to trace the line where her lips met and felt a surge of arousing confidence when she shuddered against him with her own desire. She returned the attention more forcefully, the way that she kissed, like the person she was, all at one time delicate, persistent, and spine-tinglingly hot.

His hands left her face, firmly drifting to her sides, to her arms, down the slick smoothness of her robe. He felt her skin prickle while his fingers and hands pressed along the skin of her arms and followed around to her hands. He took her left hand and freed it from behind her, directing it to his shoulder, and she responded again, eager to hold him closer to her, moving her hands to the back of his head, hoping beyond rational hope that he wouldn't pull away. He took her other hand from behind her back and directed it to his chest. She grabbed the fabric of his tee shirt roughly, her actions defining the degree of need that she felt and shattering any doubts that he had about the fact that she felt the same desire for him that he felt for her.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tightly against him and listening to a moan that emerged from deep inside of her, and when it hit the air sounded more like a contented and needy purr than any noise he had ever heard before. When his one hand slid down her to her side, he realized that the silkiness below his palm was her skin. It startled him from the intensity of their mutual attraction and he pulled back. She looked down, seeing that the tie to her robe had come undone, the heel of his palm was on the flat of her stomach, his long fingers reaching around her side. Their eyes met in confusion for a moment and much to his surprise, she was the one who moved next, closing the gap to kiss him again, not removing his hand, or refastening her robe, but continuing the encounter with desirous abandon.

He heard the irritating sound of a beeping pager and tried to ignore it, the feeling of her next to him far too captivating to willingly leave. It went off again and he ran his nose along her skin to her ear, "You can check that," he said, his voice so low and turned-on that she wanted nothing more than to continue their encounter.

"Check what?" she moaned as she felt his rough face along her shoulder and neck, her hands still preventing his retreat.

"Your pager," he said, unable to stop his lips from twitching upward at the realization of exactly how lost she was in what was going on between them.

She pulled back, her hand resting on his chest. "It's yours," she said with a small smile. "I don't keep my pager or my phone in my robe."

"Oh," he shrugged returning his hand to the space between her side and the robe, and his lips to the spot on her neck that seemed to make her melt beneath him. He remembered that spot from all those years ago.

But the pager went off again and again a few minutes later. He groaned looking down at it, his eyes following the edges of the open robe to take in the beauty of her partially uncovered body. "I gotta go. The kids tried to handle someone new on their own," he said, turning quickly away from Cuddy.

"Hey," she said, following him two or three steps while she pulled her robe tightly around her again.

"Thank you," he said, catching her smirk.

"Thank you," she replied, blushing.

"No," he near-chuckled, "I mean yes…but…I meant thank you for the trial."

"We have a few weeks until you go. Would you like to…come tonight for dinner? Or we could go out…"

"I can't," he said, looking away.

"OK," she answered, biting her lip, expecting the rejection, but feeling it burning just the same.

"It's just…I…"

"You don't have to explain," she said calmly.

"I do. The trial. It's a bad time to…get mixed up in anything. I mean…there's a chance I'll be some…drooling vegetable…a chance I'll be the same angry bastard."

"A chance your pain will be gone…or significantly lessened," she offered.

"A chance. It's better if we wait…see what happens."

"What if the outcome doesn't dictate how I feel about you," she answered sheepishly.

"You want to make out with a drooling vegetable?"

"No," she laughed softly. "But…if you're still in pain…there might be other treatments…other options…"

"If it doesn't work, I'm not going to…make you deal with me…angry…disappointed…in pain…you deserve better."

She seemed stunned but determined to protest, and he took his opportunity, grabbing his cane and fleeing as quickly as possible. The air felt cold around her in his absence. She wasn't sure if she should mourn the missed opportunity, hope for the best for the future, or be grateful that they'd avoided an encounter that would have doubtlessly ended with a lot more moaning, writhing and potentially resentment if they hadn't been interrupted.

When she arrived at work, she expected the next few weeks to be tense. She expected push back, rejection, she thought he'd try to prove to her his disinterest. They didn't see each other that day. The next day, when he needed her permission for something he acted like he usually did. A bit aggressive, a bit playful, a bit derogatory, but at the end, after she signed the paper, his finger slid softly against hers when he took the proof of her consent. He nearly smiled, it was barely noticeable, just a tiny acknowledgement that there wasn't complete hatred between them.

They went on like that for over a week, acting much like they always did, with private hints of flirtation. It was a return to much of the same, a return to limbo. She decided there was one choice. She had to pull her head down from the clouds and return to the safety of work until after House returned from the experimental procedure in Germany.

He also found safety in his usual routines, rejecting even the consideration of other possibilities for the moment. A week and three days after he found the envelope under his door, he found an email from Cuddy. The email told him he could take the following week off to prepare for his departure, and that he wasn't required to attend a conference overseas that she had virtually forced him to agree to attend in the first place. It was freedom from the hospital to lose himself in drugs or drink or whatever he felt like losing himself in during a week's vacation. He smiled with satisfaction at this second unexpected act of kindness, settling back in his chair and considering exactly how he wanted to spend his week of freedom. And then there was that question again. Why?

His attempt to relax was quickly foregone while he got up and went straight for the elevator to go to her office. She wasn't there, he discovered when he barged in past the objecting assistant. House reemerged from her office, and looked at the assistant, obviously someone new.

"Where is she?" he asked.

"Who?" the assistant anxiously responded.

House smirked and waited.

"Oh, you mean Dean Cuddy?" the young woman clarified.

"Yes, I mean Dean Cuddy."

"Meeting up in NICU with Nurse Roberts. She'll be back after that."

"OK," House answered, turning away to go find her.

"Sir," the assistant called after him, "If you wait a few minutes, I'm sure she'll be back."

House smirked as he continued to leave, shouting back, "I'm not good at waiting patiently for answers."