On the first day, he celebrated by going home early. Surely it's not his fault if no one else yells at him to do his clinic hours.

The second day he spent hiding from the ridiculously insistent #24 and bothering Wilson, who reminded him every five minutes or so that his left hand wouldn't be burnt purple if he hadn't introduced Tab A (knife) into Slot B (wall socket).

She sends him a new case on the third day. It's straightforward and a waste of his time and she knows it, but every time he's come close to tracking her down, she's spied him and turned on her heel and disappeared in the other direction, or taken corners at a speed he can't possibly match.

Finally, he finds her at the reception counter. She spots him at the exact same moment and practically sprints towards her office.

"No fair running away from the cripple," he calls across the crowded floor.

(Surely it says something about how well she's trained her staff that not one of them bats an eyelid at that.)

"I'm busy, House," she snaps back, not even turning to look at him. "Go play with your new toys. You need to keep all ten of them occupied somehow."

- - - - -

It probably isn't much of a secret that he likes seeing her angry.

He has a theory that people are at their most alive when fury is bleeding like quicksilver through their veins. It's everything - emotion, reaction, hurt and pain, and sure, everyone lies, but anger... anger is honest.

When she's angry, her eyes snap with a fire that reminds him of Michigan, of that day she swore blind she'd prove him wrong and she did, or that night when he'd landed in the infirmary with a bad case of alcohol poisoning and the first thing she did when he regained consciousness was to call him a jackass and punch him in the arm - hard enough to make him wince, because Cuddy punches above her weight like she does everything else.

This isn't just anger, though.

It's something else, something more.

- - - - -

He's taken to stalking the lift lobby.

By mid-day, he wonders if her spies - he knows she has a network of them spread across the hospital, all primed to warn her the moment he thinks of doing something illegal - have told her what he's up to.

But just as he's about to give up and go con Wilson into buying him lunch, the doors to Lift 3 slide open, and she looks up from a file and he supposes he now knows what Cuddy looks like when her heart sinks into the floor.

She starts to stride past him; he blocks her with his cane and his body and he pushes her back into the lift.

"House," she huffs at him angrily, "You can't kidnap me. I have a meeting."

"Don't care," he replies, as the doors close behind them and he hits the button for the top floor. "What are you doing, Cuddy?"

"What do you mean?" she asks, and one day someone really ought to tell her that she's never going to win any prizes for playing dumb.

"Stupid case, which you knew already," he says bluntly. "And you've been avoiding me."

"I've been busy," she frowns, eyes trained studiously on the doors, "Hard as it may be for you to comprehend, House, I run a hospital. Ten departments, not just yours, and it's been one of those weeks. Take a number."

She reaches past him and jabs a button. The lift obligingly shudders to a stop at the next floor.

"You ever going to look me in the eye again?" he asks quietly, as the doors open.

"I'm surprised you noticed," she says as she strides out of the lift. "Most of the time, your eyes are focused somewhere further south."

- - - - -

A day later - he's not one to give up easily - he barges into her room.

"Get out of my office, House," she says automatically.

"Reporting for my scolding," he declares cheerfully.

She's typing furiously, and doesn't even look over when he drops heavily down on the chair opposite hers.

"So what unholy mess do I have to clean up now?" she asks, not missing a beat as she hammers away at her much abused keys.

"No mess," he replies, "Even I can't kill a patient with athlete's foot. But I know you're still mad at me for wasting hospital electricity last week, so have at it. Yell at me. Get it out of your system."

She sighs, a heavy, frustrated sigh, and finally turns to look at him.

It's not just anger, he realises, in a flash.

It's hatred. But not of him. And it's disappointment. But not with him, either.

"What do you want from me, House?" she asks, and he's never heard her sound quite so defeated. "Sympathy? Because I don't care if your hand hurts or if your brain is fried six ways till Thursday. You're the goddamned fool who sent 300 volts through his own heart with a pocket-knife stolen from another idiot with a death wish."

"I don't need sympathy," he replies, truthfully, "and I don't have a death wish. It was a controlled experiment..."

"Semantics," she cuts him off, "and I'm done with all that, House. I'm done enabling you and worrying about you and your health and your department and your drug habit and your leg."

"I never asked you to..."

"I know. I'm saying I'm done. I've had it. There are limits even to my masochism. So from now on, I'm just going to do my job, and stop making foolish assumptions about you living long enough to do yours. Sounds fair to you?"

In all the years he's known her, there's only ever been one other occasion when he's seen Cuddy give up.

It wasn't anything anyone else would have noticed - just a falter, a pause and her hand pressing briefly against her stomach, before she picked up a cup of black coffee in the cafeteria, squared her jaw and her shoulders, and walked out like it hadn't been the hardest thing she'd ever done.

So he does all he can do - he gets out of her office.

- - - - -

The next time he sees her is two days later.

She's standing outside the maternity ward, finishing up one of her rounds, and she looks tired, drained almost grey at the edges.

"Hey," she says, and tries for a smile. It's a valiant attempt, but he's not convinced.

"Hey," he says back, and limps slowly after her as she moves to stand in front of the rows of peaceful, slumbering babies.

It's a ritual for her, he knows, a silent head-count of all the new babies in the ward over the week, and a tally of the ones that might not last the month.

She jerks her chin at the right-hand corner of the room, at a tiny bundle of cloth and pink flesh laced through with clear tubes and wires and machines that still can't prolong the inevitable.

"They named her Carly," she sighs, "and now they're just waiting. Watching her die."

He nods, once, because it's life and it's death and it's pain, and that's how it is.

But he doesn't expect it when she asks him, quietly, as her fingers trace her despair into the plate-glass window, "How many more times do you want me to watch you die, House?"

- - - - -

Another two days later, and she bumps into him on his way out the front door.

She flashes a quick, apologetic smile at him, almost a proper smile this time, and he thinks, it's been ten days.

At least she looks like she's had some sleep in the last twenty-four hours.

He gets news from Wilson now, who has started to bring her coffee every afternoon and who told him that she hasn't really been able to sleep much since the day a crash cart was called for House, Gregory, for the third time.

"Not going home yet?" he asks gruffly, and she shakes her head.

"The litigation never ends," she shrugs, "your patient from two weeks ago has family after all. We're trying to settle."

"Thirteen told me," he replies, and clears his throat before he adds, "I might deign to talk to our lawyers. If it could help. And if it doesn't interfere with General Hospital."

Tilting her head to one side, she studies him. "Thank you," she says simply.

And she smiles.

Ten days, he thinks. It's been too long.

- - - - -

He raps sharply on her door with his cane, a cup of steaming coffee in his good hand, and limps into her room.

"Morning, starshine," he says, as she removes her coat and hangs it on the stand. "Looks like I beat you into work today."

"It's two in the afternoon," she points out, "and I had a meeting. Nice of you to knock though. For once."

"I do observe social niceties on occasion," he replies dryly, before he takes a deep swallow of bitter coffee and almost chokes on the lack of sugar.

"Seriously, House," she says as she hurries over to thump him on the back. "Try not to die on me again, okay?"

"I'll do my best," he assures her, as he takes another quick swig of coffee to soothe his throat.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"Afternoon delight?" he asks, trying his luck.

She rolls her eyes.

"Fine, be that way," he says, then holds the coffee cup out to her. "Wilson had a patient. So I brought you coffee."

She arches an eyebrow at him. "That's an unusually nice thought, House, but you already drank half of it."

"I know," he replies, "which makes me sorrier than I can say, Cuddy."

She looks up at him, sharply.

He's sure she knows that this is as close to an apology as she's ever going to get.

She reaches for the cup, fingers brushing against his, and takes a sip.

"Black, no sugar," he assures her. "The way you like it."

"I know," she smiles, "I figure that's why you choked on it."

- - - - -