Ever since House had received his ketamine treatments, he'd been running to work. But, of course, he didn't just head straight to the showers like any other normal person would. He had to parade through the lobby in his shorts and running shoes—past the nurses' station and the clinic and Cuddy's office—making sure that everybody noticed him.

I'm a runner, he seemed to be proclaiming. A guy with two legs. Who can run.

Cuddy actually thought it was kind of cute, but she was worried about him, too (for a change). She worried that he was pushing himself too hard. She worried that he had forgotten he was a middle-aged man, not a 21-year-old kid. But mostly she worried that the treatments were going to wear off, leaving him in possibly a worse state—emotionally and physically—than he was before.

"How's the leg feel?" she asked him.

"What part of me dripping with sweat from having run to work don't you understand?" he asked, shaking his head like a dog, and grinning as a few beads of sweat landed on Cuddy's blouse.

"I'm very impressed, House," Cuddy said patiently. "I just want to make sure you're pacing yourself."

She walked into her office, a cue for him to follow. He did.

"I'm not pacing myself," he said. "That's the whole point. I'm making up for lost time."

"Which is exactly what I'm worried about."

"If you're so concerned about my running regimen, why don't you monitor it?"

"Like with what? A heart monitor?"

"No, like with your eyeballs."

"You want me to come with you on your runs?" she asked.

"You run, right? I run. We could run together," he shrugged.

She squinted, trying to figure out his angle.

"You just want to watch my ass in my running shorts," she concluded.

"Ah, Dr. Cuddy, but you're assuming that I'll be running behind you. When in fact, you'll be the one having a hard time keeping up with me."

She laughed. The man was so completely full of himself.

"Not that I don't relish the opportunity to spend quality time with you, House, but there is one major flaw in your proposal: I run at 6:30 in the morning and get here by 8. You run at 10 in the morning and get here by 11."

"I could do 9:30."

"I run at 6:30."

"Okay, 9."

"6:30."

"You're really not understanding the concept of the negotiation here, Cuddy. 7 o clock."

"7 in the morning?"

"Yup."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"Your place? Tomorrow morning. Wear something cute."

#####

She was positively stunned the next morning when she opened her front door and there he was, stretching his legs on her front stoop.

"Morning, sunshine!" he said.

"You're here," she said, rubbing her eyes.

"Your lack of faith in me hurts my feelings, Cuddy."

They both looked at each other.

Cuddy, who might've worn something less form-fitting if she'd believed for a second that he was actually going to show, was wearing a jogging bra and tight running shorts.

"Love the get-up, Cuddy," he said.

For his part, House was wearing baggy shorts and one of his never-ending supply of vintage T-shirts. But even through the baggy clothes, she could see that he was in excellent shape for a guy in his late 40s—especially considering how limited his exercise had been for the last several years.

"Shall we?" he said.

"I need to warm-up," she said, feeling self-conscious as he watched her stretch with barely disguised lechery. She cut her normal stretching routine short.

"Let's go, marathon man."

And they took off.

Neither of them were talkers when they ran, thank God, but they got into a pretty nice clip, side by side. Cuddy had forgotten what a good athlete he had once been, and it occurred to her that, in a few more months, she'd be the one having a hard time keeping up with him.

For now, though, she still had a bit of an edge. Either that, or he really was lagging behind to get a better look at her ass.

"Same time tomorrow, Cuddy?" he said, as they swung back around to her house.

"Okay," she said. And watched him gallop off.

So they started running together. Not every day—Cuddy couldn't be late to work that often—but at least twice a week. She even started bringing a change of clothes to the office, so they could run straight to the hospital.

And she was completely baffled by the whole thing.

On some level, she knew that she would always be a little in love with House. She had, frankly, idolized him in med school and a part of her still did. His intellect, his wit, the way he solved the seemingly unsolvable—it was thrilling just to be near that kind of genius.

And, whereas she had always been the dutiful daughter, administrator, student, etc., she found his rebelliousness—how he spoke his mind, did what he wanted to, and truly didn't give a damn what anybody else thought of him—downright liberating. How freeing it must be for him, she often thought.

Of course, there was a strong physical attraction there, too—always had been, always would be. It was pretty much coded into her DNA. So yeah, she fantasized about sex with House more than she cared to admit, and sometimes, in her weaker moments, she felt a special twinge of pride in his friendship, his trust in her, even his completely inappropriate sexual overtures.

But she never actually thought they could be boyfriend and girlfriend. House didn't do boyfriend and girlfriend anymore. Right?

So what was this?

It's just running, Lisa, she told herself. He just wants a witness to his marvelously functional legs.

######

Dr. Allison Cameron was driving to work when she passed a pair of joggers—a man and a woman—along the side of the road.

She was struck by them for two reasons: One, there was a rather charming height difference between them. He was well over 6 feet tall; she was easily a foot shorter. Two, they had such a nicely synchronized quality to their gait—they moved in near perfect rhythm—she felt for sure that they were a married couple, or at least longtime lovers.

She smiled to herself, thinking how nice it would be to have a running partner like that.

Her smile vanished, though, when the couple got close enough that she could see their faces.

######

Cameron lingered in House's office after the differential.

"Dr. Cameron, the patient's lumbar is not going to puncture itself," House said.

She hesitated.

"Did I. . .see you and Dr. Cuddy running this morning?" she blurted out.

He looked up from the file he had been reading.

"I don't know. . .Did you?"

"Yeah, I think I did."

"Then why are asking?"

He had this way of looking at her like he could see right through her.

"I just. . .how long have you guys been running together?"

"About four or five years. Oh no wait. . .I've only been able to use both legs for three months now, so you do the math."

"Right," she said slowly. "Was it Cuddy's idea?"

He gave her a knowing look.

"My idea," he said.

"But w-why?" she stammered. "I mean, I didn't know you two were that close."

He paused for a second, then said: "We're friends. She jogs. I jog. It's not a marriage proposal."

He got up, somewhat testily, and left her alone in his office.

"I jog, too," she said into the empty space.

######

Cuddy and House were about a quarter of a mile from PPTH, when he touched her arm and boyishly said, "I'll race you!"

He bolted, not waiting for her—and she sprinted after him. She was still in better shape than he was, so she managed to pass him, but he kind of tackled her from behind as they got to the front door. Then he grabbed the door and wedged himself in front of her, blocking her entrance.

They both were laughing, out of breath—giddy almost—as they entered the hospital.

"You cheater!" she said.

"Life's a contact sport, baby!" House said.

It was only then that they noticed Wilson, standing in the lobby, his arms folded, a huge smirk on his face.

"Hi Wilson," House said. "Bye Wilson."

And he sprinted off.

Wilson now turned to Cuddy. He was still grinning like a cat who had just eaten two canaries.

"Shut up, Wilson," she said.

And went to her office.

Of course, Wilson went straight to House's office.

House looked up, groaned.

"Just get it over with," he said.

"Okay, what's going on between you and Cuddy?"

"We're auditioning for The Amazing Race next week. We think we have a real shot at it!"

Wilson ignored him.

"It looked very. . . flirtatious out there," he said.

"I assure you, that was not flirtation."

"Actually, it looked like more than flirtation. It looked like foreplay."

"If you think that's foreplay, you're not doing it right. . . which I'd always suspected is the real reason your marriages fell apart."

Wilson just smirked, the same knowing smirk from before.

"Good for you, House."

House put his head in his hands. "I beg you to stop."

"No, really. I've always thought that you and Cuddy would be a great couple—the whole her-being-your-boss thing being one obvious obstacle."

"We're just hanging out," House said firmly. "Just two able-bodied adults spending some time together. Last I checked, that wasn't illegal, was it?"

Wilson, of course, missed nothing when it came to House. He knew that able-bodied was the key phrase here.

"So, stud . . . are you planning to move beyond the running buddies stage and actually ask her out?" he said.

House leaned back in his chair. Decided to come clean.

"All in good time, Wilson. All in good time."

######

A few mornings later, House and Cuddy were running when she became aware that she no longer heard the steady beat of his footsteps beside her. She looked over her shoulder. He had stopped, and was grabbing his right leg in obvious pain.

She ran over to him, worried.

"House, are you okay?"

He looked a little freaked out but was trying to put on a brave face.

"I must've cramped up, or pulled a muscle or something," he said skeptically.

"Is it your thigh?" she said.

He was clearly rubbing his leg near his infarction.

"I. . .can't tell."

"Do you need me to get my car? I can drive you to work."

"Cuddy, I'm fine. It's just a cramp. I'll catch up with you later."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Okay," she said. She reluctantly ran ahead, but glanced back at him.

He was still rubbing his leg—and this was the troubling part—hadn't even bothered to watch her as she ran away.

######

That night, at about 11 o clock, Cuddy was in bed, reading, when there was a rap at her window.

She started, and picked up the phone, ready to call 911. She peered out the window. Of course, it was House, dressed for a run, already in a bit of a lather.

She opened the window.

"Jesus, House, you scared the shit out of me. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Care to go for a midnight run, Dr. Cuddy?"

"You're crazy," she said, laughing despite herself. "Come to the front door."

She put on a robe, met him out front.

"You're a lunatic," she said affectionately, stepping onto the porch.

He grinned.

"I didn't get in a good run this morning, so I figured no better time than the present."

"Yes. For sure. No better time than 11 pm on a weeknight. Everyone's doing it. Oh wait. . .no one is doing it."

She looked at his leg. He didn't seem to be limping.

"So how is your leg, anyway?"

"It's fine. I told you it was just a cramp," he said. "So, ready to take off that nightie and work up a sweat? . . . Wait, that came out wrong."

She shook her head, smiled. "Tell the truth, House. Is this a fitness call or a booty call?"

He rested one arm against the side of her house, leaned into her.

"Dr. Cuddy, you dirty dirty girl."

"You're the one who's dirty!" she teased. His armpit was practically in her face.

He inhaled her hair.

"And you smell great. . ."

He bent down, gave her a kiss. His skin was still radiating heat and his lips and tongue felt so good against hers and in that exact moment, Lisa Cuddy knew that they were going to have sex and that there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. . .

Instead, much to her surprise (and dismay), he stopped kissing her, backpedaled away.

"See you tomorrow, Cuddy!" he said.

And sprinted off.

######

Had it been a dream?

She saw him at work the next day, but of course, neither acknowledged the kiss.

Then, she opened her door at 7 the next morning, but he wasn't stretching on her porch. She waited about 20 minutes before she gave up and ran alone.

Maybe he forgot.

But two days later, their next regularly scheduled run, he was a no show again.

She went into his office.

"Hey, missed you this week. Where ya been?"

His head jerked up. He hastily put a bottle of pills into his desk. Vicodin?

"Sorry. I. . .my leg's been acting up."

"Oh, House, cramping again? Or. . ." she couldn't bring herself to say it.

"I honestly don't know."

But he looked upset.

She took a deep breath, decided to take a chance.

"Well, maybe we don't have to go running. Maybe we could just go for a drink or something, after work."

"Yeah. .. maybe," he said skeptically. He looked back down.

He wasn't going to meet her half way. The bastard never met her halfway.

"Alright, well, you let me know," she said.

She left his office, slightly ticked off.

Two days later, she saw him limping down the hallway. The next day, he was back to using his cane. A few days after that, he brazenly popped a vicodin right in front of her.

They never went running together again.