House, M.D. 1. Perhaps you're not an angel

_I don't own House MD, but I guess you're all smart enough to have already assumed that :) This follows on from the season 6 finale (I know, NOT original) but I hope you'll enjoy. Current rating may change dependant on reception._

**Perhaps you're not an angel.**

He heard his own doubts echo throughout the room, reverberating with the insane beat of a potential opiate trip; the words flowed from his own insecurities before he could even begin to comprehend the situation,

"How do I know I'm not hallucinating?"

He was standing afore the familiar precipice that had mocked him for an entire year: were his wounded and calloused fingers gripping onto a construct of his own deluded deprivation, or was this woman Lisa Cuddy? If he let go would she disappear, would he fall, or had he already hit the stone beneath? Their eyes closed the distance between them until House could have sworn she had entered his very own.

She was smiling, "Did you take the Vicodin?" It wasn't really a question; _she_ didn't need an audible answer.

He could feel her hand on his chest, fingers resting upon the battered and filthy leather of his jacket. She felt so real, so cleansing; it was like standing beneath a waterfall as it pummelled his skin, removing the remnants of that day's death and despair. He held out a hand revealing its contents more to himself than her: two powder white tablets stared back, his hand frowned at them momentarily before wishing to vanquish them from their throne, but House waited with the will to make this moment be endured for long enough to ensure that he meant the action.

"No." House moved back to her face.

"Then I think we're okay."

"Yeah." As the words left his mouth he allowed his old friends to fall to the floor, stone cold and unwanted.

It was a rare phenomenon for Gregory House to smile with no sarcastic or cynical prompts, and as his lips curled and his eyes sparkled Lisa Cuddy followed his smile until their lips met and his hand searched for hers. A fierce magnetism that had been tugging at the two healers entwined their fingers and held them in a hypnotic embrace. Her lips were a soothing balm upon his aches and pains, caressing his own with an adamant familiarity. A hand glided along his chest to push upwards through his greying locks, holding his forehead against her own as they simultaneously gasped for breath.

"You're doing a real good job here of fixing my shoulder," House joked, his hand caressing Cuddy's cheek.

Returning the banter, she continued to stroke his hair, entwining strands between her fingers, "Well I've been out of practice for so long I've obviously forgotten how to attend to my patients."

"I'm not complaining," he planted a kiss upon her forehead and sighed.

Noting this Cuddy intercepted any possible uneasiness, "What are you sighing about?"

Resigned to the need to share he replied, "This is never going to be simple."

Frowning, she backed against the wall giving her enough room to watch him properly, "House, I know we have some stuff we need to talk about, but I really thought we could wait a little while, I didn't plan on attacking you with the topic,"

Placing a hand against the wall for support he rubbed his thigh without really considering the action, "I know, It's just... you called me a patient."

Shaking her head she reached out for his busy hand, "It was a joke House. I didn't mean it like that."

He stared down at her slim fingers that were resting upon his angry thigh, "I am your patient though: you've always had to look after me, make sure I didn't lose my licence, or kill a patient, or get locked up."

"That's me, Gregory House's very own guardian angel." She smiled back reassuringly.

House turned around too sharply in what could only be described as embarrassment and resent for who he was; his leg wavered beneath him and Cuddy rushed to bring him back to stability.

Panting slightly they stood in the destruction of his bathroom, observing one another through pieces of shattered mirror in the bathtub.

"You're not supposed to hurt your guardian angel." House gripped onto the side of the tub whilst Cuddy held him to her.

"Perhaps we angels are supposed to be impervious to pain."

"Perhaps you're not an angel."

"I'm not House, I'm just a woman."

Shaking his head, "You're not just a woman: you're Lisa Cuddy."

Short salty tears ran down Cuddy's face, hitting a shard of mirror, "Whatever this is, we're in this together. We've always been in this together."

* * *

House sat on the bathroom floor attempting to ease the throbbing pain that penetrated his right leg, Cuddy entered after throwing out the debris that had been cleared from the tub; her stride tired yet purposeful.

"You realise I'm not a real house, you can't just hammer the broken floorboards back into place and rent me out." He wasn't being a pessimist, just a realist.

She nodded in appreciation of the metaphor, "I know."

"I don't want to hurt you." He continued his furious rubbing of the missing muscle.

"I know you don't." Reaching out to secure the plug, Cuddy turned the taps and watched the bathtub begin to fill.

House cocked his eyebrow, "You not gonna give me a sponge-bath Doctor?"

Smiling with contentment she splashed a little of the bath's contents into his lap, "No Mr House, I thought you could manage a real bath, and if I may say so myself..." Pausing she awaited confirmation.

House nodded inquisitively with his approval waiting for the end of a potential innuendo.

"You're positively filthy."

Locked in a staring contest, bottled laughter protested until a straight face was no longer possible; Cuddy was the first to crack as she snorted into her hands. House followed suite with little time in between.

"Very nice delivery, well executed." He held out his hand to her, guiding toward his side.

"I thought you'd appreciate it, and to be honest I wasn't far wrong." She wiped a finger down the side of his cheek in demonstration.

House grasped her hand delicately in the process, "You know it'll take time to..."

"Fix yourself." She concluded.

"Yeah, and you have to understand that we can't just..."

"Jump into things." Cuddy interjected.

"Right. I want to be with you, but we're not ready to do that at the moment. I can't screw this up... again." Admitting this to Cuddy had helped him begin clearing his head: he wanted her, he needed her, but he was poison right now. Cuddy rested her head against his chest as he stroked her hair, pulling it free from the confines of her ponytail. "We have time. We have time for everything. Imagine I'm on dialysis: it takes a little while to filter out all of the bad stuff before I'm ready, fit for purpose. "

"What's your purpose going to be when you're done with the treatment?" she probed.

"I'm going to be yours. Until then though, we have to be slow, I'm doing this for your sake."

"But I can still help you tonight, so hurry up and get in the tub."

He was covered in grime and dirt, and he didn't look dissimilar to some of the redundant lumps of rubble back at the sight; the bath looked inviting.

Cuddy twisted the tap, shutting off the flow of water. "Come on, you know it'll help."

House leant forward to remove his dirt encrusted jacket and felt the twinge from his shoulder, gritting his teeth her persevered in an attempt of not showing any pain. Cuddy let him take his jacket off alone and waited for him to unbutton his shirt before helping him negotiate his way out of it.

"I think your shoulder's complaining."

"Yeah, some crazy administrator tried to use her healing hands on it earlier," He winked at her and then lowered his voice to a whisper, "I think she's a bit out of practice; still thinks she's a doctor."

Cuddy shot him a glaringly stern gaze before her reply, "Dean of medicine. I AM a doctor!"

Watching her get angry had always held an arousing pleasure for him, so he continued to push her, "phhfft." He waved his hand nonchalantly.

With the intention of giving him a playful slap she reached toward his arm, but instead her arm overstretched colliding with his wounded shoulder.

"Aohhww, Doctor, gratuitous violence!" He clasped his free hand to his shoulder.

"House, I didn't mean to." Suddenly feeling very embarrassed by her impromptu abuse.

House began to laugh even though he was in genuine pain, "It's fine; I probably deserved that one." He did however enjoy the very thorough examination she had now begun to give the affected area: she was close enough for him to smell her shower gel. She had obviously taken the time to cleanse herself of the day before she came to his apartment, he on the other hand needed this bath quite badly. "Okay, help me get out of this shirt without tearing my arm straight off." He hadn't realised what he'd said until it came out and then there was an elephant in the room.

Doing her best not to be too blunt, Cuddy complied with his request, "How is Hanna?"

House dragged his eyes to a far away wall, his own intense desire to scream gnawing at the tiles, "She didn't make it to the hospital."

Recoiling slightly Cuddy attempted to steady her breath, "Oh House, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, wasn't my fault... fat embolus." He didn't want to be pitied, he didn't want to have her empathise and share his own pain, he was tired and sad and he just couldn't face it all anymore.

"But she got to see her husband one last time, _you_ gave her that." She cupped his cheeks in her palms, turning his despondent head towards her.

With desperate agitation he spat his words out in anger, "How is that a good thing, she still died. Seeing her husband didn't save her life, it just gave him a terrible experience."

"No House, no." She pleaded desperately to get him to understand, to get him to contemplate how comforting that one last time could be, "Do you know how it feels to know you're never going to see someone again, to never say goodbye?"

House blinked, he didn't know. He'd been the one too busy having near death experiences ever to be a bystander.

"It's the worst pain you could ever contemplate." She could see confusion in his weary eyes, "Your infarction surgery, getting shot, the bus crash and all the heart attacks and seizures that came with it, your motorcycle accident..."

House held up a hand, "Stop, I get the gist."

"I never want to leave you without saying goodbye." Breathing heavily she began to help him remove his t-shirt, his face still wore the lines of shock that she had helped paint there, but she worked past that until he sat before her with his bare torso. She took the brief opportunity to admire him rather like a painter watching the canvas that bore them upon the background; he was a part of her, a part that has been over twenty years in formulation and was only just beginning to make sense.

"Seeing as you're getting to see me without my clothes on I'm thinking it's time you removed yours." He hinted hopefully.

She smiled at his lewd comment, "I thought we decided that there's time for that, time for everything."

"Yes, but magnificent things should be admired."

He sounded relatively sincere, of course it was just his sense of humour, but beneath it she could almost feel his honesty and her cheeks responded with the colour crimson. "Come on; take your pants off you silly man-child."

"Ohh come on, stop with the blushing; you can't act like you don't know it." He teased.

Cuddy pursed her lips and shook her head slightly as he unzipped his pants and tried to wiggle out of them. "Your compliments are a little unconventional."

Pushing his pants aside he sat there in just his boxers, and he witnessed her eyes glide toward his deformed thigh. Quickly he avoided her gaze and attempted to cover the scar inconspicuously with his right hand.

"Do you blame me for it?" She asked with a wavering uncertainty tainting her words.

He didn't take any time to answer, "No."

"Then you don't need to hide it away from me." She took his hand in her again and pulled it to her lips planting kisses upon his bruises.

"Sometimes I want to blame the way I act on it, but really I'm just an ass." It was an apology masquerading as a statement.

She drew herself close to his ear, near enough to whisper, "Your right, you are an ass; but that's what your 'dialysis' is for." She kissed his cheek tenderly, "Now take your boxers off and get in the bath before it gets cold."

"Right, but you better close your eyes."

Acquiesce to his request, she shut her lids tightly, listening to the sound of House entering the tub, displacing the water and sighing with relief. Repositioning herself, Cuddy slid along the tiles against the tub so she could use it as a support, she allowed her aching neck to drop back so it was resting against the plastic rim.

Houses left hand draped itself lazily against the side, close enough to touch her, close enough to feel her beneath his touch. A hand willed its way toward soft brown curls, contemplating the beauty of the creature within their grasp. He knew her well enough to close his eyes and examine every feature that had accessible to him day in, day out for ten years; he had seen all of her many years ago, and his mind had often conjured that image again and again, but his hand was willing its way towards her, to at least allow her to see him. His fingers felt her skin beneath them, moaning in pleasure, wanting more. "Lisa, open your eyes."

Lisa... she obeyed him with wonder, turning to kneel against the waters barrier, chasing the hand that guided her towards him. Her eyes marvelled at his nudity: seeing him there wasn't just her seeing a naked man, she was watching Gregory House making his greatest effort and sacrifice for the sake of her. Observing him haul his way to sit upright despite the obvious pain of his injured limb wasn't merely a struggle, it was his moment to show he wanted change. Feeling his hands reach down her waist to the hem of her scrub top wasn't merely a man undressing her, it was a moment where he could unfurl the barrier that she willed to be removed. As she unhooked her bra House traced the delicate skin from her lips to neck with a pattern of delicate kisses, his stubble grazing the area with a fiery passion that contrasted with the sensitivity of his actions. Hungry for more she pulled his mouth to hers, interlocking them with vigour.

She was a goddess, a half naked goddess kneeling on his bathroom floor, her hands wantonly caressing his body, wanting to be closer. She stood up, reluctant to pull away from his kiss, and began to remove the rest of her attire, eyes interlocked, never leaving one another. As she slid of her underwear a knock penetrated the silence.

Again. House sighed in powerful exasperation, "Really?"

And again. Cuddy began to climb back into her clothes.

And again, followed by a voice, "House!"

It was familiar, it was Wilson. The door was unlocked, and there he was.


	2. You're testing me?

_I'm astounded by the amount of alerts I've received in such a short period of time and I really appreciate all the reviews. I apologise if I take time to update but I have forthcoming exams. Please enjoy..._

**You're testing me?**

In Gregory Houses mind there was no God. Perhaps upon occasion he had believed in the almighty's existence, albeit a sporadic and intermittent one: ten seconds ago a goddess, deity, an exquisite masterpiece of human form had stood naked in front of his eyes; hot and sexy as hell in his bathroom, ready to make love to him then and there. Now she was cruelly concealed behind a shield of superfluous clothing to preserve her modesty, whilst his own arousal was spectacle to the impromptu arrival of his shocked audience. If there was a God, he would have intercepted James Wilson and taken the opportunity to stare down from the heavens at his finest work, Lisa Cuddy. After all, in the depravities of Houses deluded mind, God would be a pervert.

"Hou-Cuddy?" Wilson's false start surprised himself; for his eyes to be greeted with his boss in House's bathroom was unexpected, and her evident previous lack of clothing was even more so.

It had taken a gargantuan effort to clamber back into her scrubs, but the hem of her top had been safely secured and pushed beyond her midriff in time to prevent excessive embarrassment.

"Wilson." She acknowledged whilst avoiding his stunned gaze.

Hovering in the doorway his wandering requirement to be downright nosey had once again fallen from his watch: he simply couldn't help himself, if he tried not to take an interest in something some sort of cat like reflex in his mind simply batted his indifference away with an angry paw. He was trying to convince his legs to take a step back, to turn around, but he was James Wilson and it was unlikely to happen.

"Jees Jimmy, can you please cover your eyes, this isn't a zoo." House pulled his torso toward the side of the bath tub in an attempt to conceal himself from the visitor.

Rotating upon his heel in a desperate attempt to make a decision as to what he should reasonably do Wilson stuttered, "I-right-well-I-ohhh God!" Instead he opted for remaining in the doorway but quite literally covering his eyes at House's request.

"Damn right." House nodded with approval at his blinded friend, "What're you doing?"

"You said cover your eyes, and I am." He indicated with his free hand the fingers that obscured his vision.

"No stupid, here, what're you doing _here_?" House said now thoroughly incensed; he believed he had a right to be, Wilson was interrupting his guaranteed, _extremely_ sexy sex.

Still stuttering like a nervous schoolboy, "Oh, I came to check up on you."

"Oh wow thanks daddy!" House sarcastically spat back.

Ouch, bad choice of words. Wilson hadn't meant it like that, but the entire situation was making him obscenely uncomfortable. He attempted to reason, "I didn't mean... I just, Foreman said.." He was spinning left and right with a means to recollect the art of articulate speech until his head and protecting hand collided sharply with the corner of the door frame, "Ahh shit!"

Cuddy sighed, a perfect moment ruined. How many perfect moments could you really get in one life? After today, full of tarnished hopes and wishes, death and destruction, a perfect moment really would have been for lack of a more fitting word, perfect.

"Well as you can see I'm pretty good." His voice said it all, House was doing his utmost to usher him out.

"Well actually I can't see." Wilson's now slightly angry tone unperturbed by Houses advance to push him out. "In fact why am I closing my eyes? I've seen you naked before." Dropping his hands to his hips Wilson attempted to look stern, resulting in him looking like an angry parent.

"Oh shush you! You were closing your eyes because there are supposed to be _two_ naked people in this bath right now."

"House!" Cuddy's stern reprimand highlighted her discomfort in the situation.

It just came out, he was deflecting: he should care about Wilson's caring, but caring about other peoples caring was just something House didn't care about. "I don't care."

"What?" Cuddy span on the spot mimicking Wilson's stance, hands poised on hips, lips fixed in a thin line of tight regulation.

House waved his hand with dispelled vigour, "Not about that, doesn't matter."

The other two occupants of the room simply stared at one another in palpable confusion.

"Look House, I just came by to make sure you hadn't... done something _really_ dumb." Wilson professed.

"Oh like haul a mirror off the wall to reveal my hidden Vicodin stash and then spend my evening getting high?" He gave Wilson an unnervingly stoic stare, "because this is actually a pretty surreal situation, so I think I could be ... again."

Wilson's dismayed confusion had no other response but shock, "You didn't!"

"I don't know, like I said _surreal_." House wiggled his fingers childishly in front of his penetratingly calm face.

Wilson remained silent.

"Ohh come on Wilson, of course I didn't. Someone stole your show," He jerked his head at Cuddy who was now resting her arm against the wall hoping with an intense desire that it could suck her through into the next room, "And may I say you are unacceptably late, if my fate had been left in _your_ hands I'd be rolling around on the floor by now!"

Wilson looked sheepishly guilty and began clasping his hands together with little purpose.

Cuddy decided to interject Houses little guilt trip, "I didn't do anything; it was your choice, your actions."

"Yeah but.." House began.

Peeling herself off the wall she guided her aching feet to the side of the tub, placing her hands on his cheeks and smiling to reveal her pearly white teeth.

"Ohh my.." Feeling like a third wheel he turned away from the sentimental scene in front of him, the intruder was truly beginning to feel the downsides to his privacy invasion.

"Did I drop the pills?" she asked.

"No." House replied.

"Then it was you." She kissed his forehead, lingering for a moment before levelling once again with his gaze, "I might have been a good influence, better than your conscience anyway, but it was at least ninety-percent you."

Wilson left the room with heavy enough footfalls to indicate his departure.

Shouting in the wake of her leaving employee, "Wait Wilson, don't leave, wait in the living room." Cuddy prevented him from disappearing completely.

House raised an eyebrow, "I didn't think you wanted an audience."

"House, I should really go now. You need to talk to Wilson and.." She began.

"Yeah, I think it's more urgent that we talk." House insisted.

Smiling at the sentiment, knowing he really did want to try and fix things she continued, "I know, and we will." Lovingly she stroked his cheek, "I have to sort some things out at home, with Rachael. We'll talk, we'll take it slow."

"You're walking out, you don't want this anymore." House's blazing blue orbs became very dull very suddenly.

"No, it's not that. I honestly just need to go home and sort things out, I promise we'll talk soon." She stressed with an urge to bring back the sparkle to his eyes.

Cerulean met blue, "Please Lisa, can't we talk tonight?"

"Why so urgent, you said yourself that we had time for this." She tilted her head trying to unmask his feelings.

There was no use in lying; he was trying to fix himself, not damage further, "I'm scared."

Cuddly laughed nervously, "Scared, scared of what?" She began stroking his damp hair trying to bring some comfort to her future.

"I-I'm... ready now. I can do it now, but I'm scared that if you came to me tomorrow, or the day after, or next week, I'd..." he trailed of despondence overwhelming him.

"You'd what?"

"I'd say something dumb and insensitive, I'd chicken out and not tell you what I _really_ want, what I'm prepared to do." There, he'd said it. His heart was now lying in her hands for the sake of him not wanting to break hers.

Still eye to eye, she whispered, "Do you love me?"

Without a moment's hesitation, "Yes.".

Cuddy rose from his side, "Then you'll do it. I have to go now."

He watched her leave partly in shock, partially in awe, "What, you're testing me?"

Pausing between strides to consider his thoughts she leant against the doorframe and nodded with sincerity, "I'm sorry Greg, I have to." She continued her departure.

He blinked furiously, was that real? Did that _just_ happen? He couldn't quite work out how to feel: he was being tested, counted, quantified, deduced; subject to assessment and analysis, she had entered _his_ play area. Was she screwing with him? She'd wasted no time in arriving, had she actually talked to Lucas, perhaps that's where she was going. Disappearing out of his door to finalize what she had already assured him of. Unless this was a repeat performance: perhaps she really was just screwing with him. He furiously lashed out at the water, sending a tidal wave over the sides and onto the floor, "What the hell?"

_P.S I could do with some help: in my Huddy universe (and in many other peoples) we're just waiting for them to do it in the absence of hallucinations... I've never written smut, anybody with experience feel like being a beta?_


	3. Selfish motives: Rachael's mother

**Selfish motives: Rachael's mother.**

What was that? What the hell was that? Choosing his steps with an intentional care the floor responded with more than equal measure as though it understood the footfalls from above, and had become accustomed for the need to raise echoes into the silence. Each step took into account the critical analysis of his invasion, each perversely kicking him as he paced for his need to '_care'_. He had come to help because he thought he was the only person close enough to House to conceivably care, the only one with the credentials to aid his destructive friend; yet someone else had beaten him to it, stole his glory and indefinitely left Gregory House open to be assaulted with his own relationship orientated ineptitudes. Raising a hand to his forehead he stopped his march upon the floorboards, Lisa Cuddy: House's Achilles heel.

From the bathroom came a voice, demanding and petulant, "Wilson."

No reply. House knew he was there; leaving was no option when the opportunity to pry into his business was available. "Hey Wilson, I know you're there, I can practically smell you peeing your pants in anticipation." He waited a few seconds before continuing with his request, "Bring me a towel."

His body had reached an agreement before his mind had taken the opportunity to contemplate the request. Heading to the closet he reached up to the top shelf, avoiding a shower of sneakers, and pulled out a white towel. He should've left: it wasn't his business. He had felt guilty for throwing House out of the apartment, out of his life; he'd rejected him thinking it would make life easier, and now he'd come back to fix what he thought he'd broken. Now standing in the bathroom, Wilson hung the towel loosely in his grip as an offering waiting to be taken.

House eyed up Wilson's stance: his outstretched arm suggested him toying with indifference towards the situation, his furrowed brow suggested that whilst deep in thought his feelings had juxtaposed with his body searching for resolution.

House shook his head, "Help me out?"

Wilson folded the towel neatly and placed it upon the closed lid of the toilet, he reached out towards House's proffered arm and waited for him to initiate contact.

House raised an eyebrow momentarily before accepting the aid, "Y'know that's my towel and not your underpants right?"

Wilson's retort was sarcastic and tinged with worry, "Really? I'm so sorry House, I should be more careful when trying to _help_ you."

Swatting his arm playfully at his assistance House attempted to lighten the mood, "Ahhaha you. Always cracking me up when I need it."

"Right, what exactly do you need?" Wilson stepped aside allowing House to proceed

"Good question Doctor, why don't you go find your Tardis and go back shall we say..." He mimicked checking an imaginary wristwatch, "ten minutes? When you find yourself at my door, don't barge in." His gait swaying rhythmically as he limped into the bedroom.

With his presence evidently unwanted Wilson dejectedly collapsed on the couch: unprepared to leave, not desiring the inevitable confrontation.

Minutes passed in unnerving silence whilst House dressed and Wilson sat. The silence was beginning to irritate House; he knew Wilson had something to say, in fact he probably had a lot of stupid things to say and in his mind there was little purpose in holding out for the 'right moment'.

"Come on, say it." House shouted from the bedroom.

He didn't want to sound too authoritarian, too rigid, too Wilson. If there was any way that what his friends were doing wasn't totally idiotic he'd leave it, perhaps welcome it; this was about him protecting and preserving the potential happiness and stability of many people. That was it, he'd clinched it then and there, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

House limped to the doorway in apparent confusion, "What?"

"An affair? You really think that's what's best for you?" He rose to his feet, his hands performing an orchestration of their feelings, "Well done, you've really done it now!"

Still utterly baffled, "What are you talking about?"

"Ohhh _come on_! You're a recovering drug addict with probable alcoholism, who cannot sustain a normal relationship in _any_ context, has spent the past year and a half depressed because you're in love with a woman that your own faults won't let you touch without burning your hands. You hate everything that you are and you won't let anyone in close enough to help you." His words were met in stony silence but he continued the rant,"And now you think that having an affair with your 'Achilles heel' is really a good idea? What planet are you on House?"

"Oh and you really think you have all the facts there?" House limped angrily towards him.

"She has a _daughter,_ she's _engaged_, and she's buying a house with Lucas!" He urged him to understand, too see how damaging this situation was. "This is just selfish."

Stamping his feet like an impetuous child, his reply in contradiction of Wilson's reasoning, "No."

"Just because you say it doesn't make it so." Painfully he stressed every syllable, "move on, it's time to accept it: she's chosen Lucas."

House repeated, "No."

"Having sex with you doesn't mean you've won, she still has Rachael and Lucas, you know they'll be the priority. This isn't what you need."

He couldn't restrain a smile, "but she's chosen me."

Exasperated with Houses infantile mentality Wilson resumed his pacing, "What're you thinking? That if you just keep on going she's going to realise she loves you?"

House headed towards the piano. Lifting the lid he caressed the keys: octave scales giving the tense moment an eerily content background noise, "she does love me."

He wasn't shocked by the response, he was merely further agitated by Houses sheer perseverance "Oh so what? Anyone could've told you that."

"Yeah but it means more when she say's it." He wanted his news to shock, to make some sort of spectacle and show how wrong Wilson was, he intended to push the boundaries until the split at the seams and the news that Jimmy boy could obviously not conceivably imagine spilled onto the floor. So he waited, predator in the corner of the room, ready to catch him out.

"Oh god, I get it know." He waggled his finger in the music's direction as though he'd found the missing tile of the jigsaw, "You think she's going to get attached, you think she's going to decide to leave Lucas, she's going to want to play happy families with you and Rachael."

House swung his legs from the piano stool to face Wilson, "She kinda does."

Amazed at the response, Wilson lowered his head, "Don't kid yourself House. This is why you shouldn't be doing this: the delusion in your mind is going to tear you apart. Do you really think that even if this does happen, not that it's likely to, but if it does..." this blow was going to sting, "face it: you couldn't be there for Cuddy, and you certainly couldn't be Rachael's father."

The piano's keys we're stationary and silent, House's hand hovering above them just behind his back. A cloud of noxious gas had spilled between the apartments two occupants, neither daring to speak, just eerily silent. The hand displayed its anger as it powerfully collided with the dormant keys setting of a rampant parade of aggressively un-harmonised notes, "She's already left him."

* * *

Cuddy hadn't known how long she would be onsite that evening, she had therefore taken an early precaution with Rachael by asking Marina stay the night. She was good with Rachael, reliable, and thankfully had a versatile time schedule (somewhat indicative in Cuddy's mine of her lack of a life). She could have stayed the night at House's apartment but realistically it wouldn't have been right: she felt like she had neglected her baby for long enough that day, and her conscience was telling her that asking Marina to stay overnight without being paid overtime was definitely taking advantage. Besides, as much as she wanted to release years of sexual tension it wasn't the opportune moment. She was playing God, testing House. There were no jokes when she left his apartment; she truly was going to test him; not because she was a control freak or a narcissist (as much as House would like to contend those two statements), she needed reassurance that they could work, that he wasn't a total ass. She knew they were each other's weaknesses, and knowing this made her heart tremor because no matter how much she denied it, two weak joints pushed together didn't make a stronger structure. She pulled up onto her new driveway and slammed her hands onto the steering wheel, "Damn it." Metaphors weren't always right.

Climbing out of her car Cuddy absentmindedly twirled her keys between her fingers, her eyes drawn to the still unfamiliar structure before her. She had been reluctant to move quite so suddenly, but Lucas had been insistent that they do it 'asap'. She should have put her foot down then, she should have voiced her doubt that had been gnawing at the pit of her stomach for so long. Shaking the thoughts from her head she continued towards the door. She paused. She looked over her shoulder. Something wasn't right: her car was solitary in the driveway, where was Marina? Cautiously she entered through the unlocked door, negotiating the hallway through the maze of unsorted cardboard boxes. Her attempt at silent admission was blighted by the collision of her foot with an unsecured baby gate. The crash caused her to shriek and from the next room a disgruntled baby began to bawl.

"Lisa?"

Oh god, it was Lucas. Entering the room she immediately headed toward her perturbed child, arms outstretched in command that Lucas handed her over to her mother. Cuddy bounced her on her hip from side to side, willing her into silence, "Come on Rachael, its only mommy. Shh baby, it's okay, it's okay." Why was she awake at this ungodly hour? Still rocking her child Cuddy locked eyes with him, "Where's Marina?"

"Sent her home." He shrugged his shoulders trying to show that his actions were entirely reasonable.

Cuddy raised an eyebrow astonished by his cockiness, "You sent her home?"

"Yeah, my stakeout was cancelled so I thought I could help out." He began to reach out to stroke her cheek.

She stopped him with a free hand, sudden sympathy gushing into her, "Please Lucas, don't do this."

He tried to laugh off her action, "Lisa."

"I'm sorry, really I am." She bowed her head, allowing the shame to wash off spiralling to the ground, soaking into the surroundings, "I meant what I said earlier. It's over."

"Lisa, please.." his hands gesturing out wildly wanting to grip onto what they had.

Rachael's crying had ceased and Cuddy stole the opportunity to put her down in the assembled playpen.

Bewildered he said, "I don't get it. "

Cuddy sighed, aching all over from pain and weary fatigue she regretfully turned away from her daughter, "I just can't do it anymore, it isn't fair."

"Fair for me, or fair for you?" He attacked, "Because to be quite honest you're being selfish."

Suddenly feeling assaulted, Cuddy lashed back, "_Me_ being selfish? How did you work that one out."

He took a step forward, closing the gap slightly, "If you cared about anyone but yourself then you'd get it. You can't just say this is broken when it isn't: we work, we look out for each other, care about each other, love each other."

Her lip trembled slightly.

"I'm great with Rachael, she likes me, I love her. We are a family." He took another step forward, daring her to back away.

"I can't help loving him." She remained rooted to the spot, not even trying to avoid his close proximity.

He ran his hands through his hair, turning in unanticipated disgust, "Sure, like that actually matters."

Her voice answered hoarsely, "Of course it matters."

"No it doesn't!" His shout caused Rachael to cough unexpectedly before resuming her bawling.

"Shh, keep your voice down." She reprimanded his obnoxious behaviour and tried to console her once again screaming child.

"You think he'd keep his voice down? You think he could ever be half the father to her that I am now?" he followed her towards Rachael, "You're taking away the most important thing in my life. Do you want me to beg?"

She couldn't deny it, he was right. Her tear ducts were replying as she felt the hot gush of salty tears invade her eyes, "Can we end this with a little dignity; I don't want to remember us like this." She knew she was taking a risk, the same sort of a risk you take when crossing a busy highway; a dare devil might do it for the fun, the adrenaline rush, but she had a baby in her arms in need of protection. Crossing the road shouldn't be an option, but she was going to be ...selfish.

In two decisive strides she was right there in front of him, tired and dressed in her pink scrubs. When Lucas let his eyes trail their way across her features, he felt her uncertainty, he could see resistance to let go. She mimicked his footfalls until they were close enough to smell one another. They were both in pain, both experiencing very different and yet closely related emotional trauma. Lucas let his hand guide itself once again to her cheek, this time she didn't push it away. Still balancing the baby between them, he reached over and placed a lonely kiss on her lips; lingering for a moment he felt a tear roll down her cheek and across his mouth.

"I love you." He said it with the resignation of a condemned man.

She mirrored his own hand, stroking his face fondly, "I know you do."

Pausing slightly, he took the opportunity for her words to seep into his mind, he replied, "Then I hope this is the right decision."

"Me too," Her lips curled upwards slightly, enough to show her appreciation.

Lucas bent down to kiss Rachael's head, "I'll miss you. Behave for your mommy."

Cuddy knew he cared, he had a deep and profound devotion towards her daughter and she could practically feel her hands pulling them apart, delving into the crevices of the widening gap a tearing down the line between. A little unsure of how she felt Cuddy made a heartfelt request, "You can still see her anytime you like."

Lucas shut his eyes before releasing a sigh, "No disrespect Lise, but I'd rather not." When he allowed his eyes to open he saw her before him, beautiful and bewildered, "She's a baby, she'll forget me, and that's fine: if I can't be around all the time then it's better for her to forget."

Cuddy nodded, lost for words.

"It'll be easier for me to ... move on." He had said all he could and she had made her decision, time was calling for him to leave, and so he did.

She followed him to the front door, a little unwilling for her to have to watch him leave all over again. With a hand on the door Lucas made his last stand, "You're sure about this?"

She couldn't bare lying to him, "No, not entirely; but I'm going to do it."

She watched Lucas leave, hands delving deeply within the pockets of his jeans whistling to the sleeping birds. His last words weren't audible to her ears and he knew it, "Good luck."

* * *

House's apartment was quiet, Wilson had departed hours ago, yet he lay there awake. With eyes boring holes into his dark ceiling he realised just how different their lives were. She was Rachael's mother.

_OK guys, this is my first, and potentially only, House M.D fic; I don't want to sound needy but any constructive criticisms? It feels like I have a very large but relatively unresponsive audience :( Oh, and would people object if I started calling pants and sneakers, trousers and trainers? I'm not used to writing with all these Americanisms... _


	4. Good morning

**Good morning.**

Those who were at least vaguely aware of the night Dr House had suffered had chosen to accept the inevitable: he was going to be late.

James Wilson strolled into work at 7:50AM, he was early. His briefcase hung absentmindedly on the end of his arm, swaying in time with his steps across the immaculately glistening floor of the PPTH. It was difficult to tell that morning due to the fallacy of his demeanour, but he was troubled; he tried to cloak his feelings of regret and remorse for the night before, he tried to keep his gait lively and focussed on the day ahead. Knowing how hard his words had hit, he knew how inopportune his moment to fly off the handle had been, and yet he had still done it. He ran a hand through his hair, hoping the motion would cleanse him of the blame he threw upon himself as a result of all the pain and anger he had induced in his friend. He reached the closed door of the elevator tapping his foot quietly on the marble floor of the lobby, listening to the satisfying tune it dully played. He didn't expect House to limp up behind him today: they probably weren't friends at that precise moment in time. Besides, he was going to be late.

* * *

"_Why do you do that, why do you need to negate everything?_"

"_I_ _don't know._"

Now he knew. Everything Wilson had made him endure that night, all the cruelty and mocking, each word brutally announced with vindictive pleasure sparring at his new found desire to change: the truth. The truth had jolted him into realisation; he needed to negate everything because Lisa Cuddy was an adult. She was a grown up; she had responsibility; whereas he, Gregory House, was a petulant, impetuous child. Every decision she made pushed her further away from him. Tracing lines in the sand between them she was running ahead, prepared to accept that it was time to look after others whilst he trailed along behind her, reluctant to follow the path she was setting. A familiar need to throw his toys out of the pram crept up behind him, looming above playing the role of the dark ancestral spectre; he didn't have to conform to his Housian self, he could make the effort. His future wasn't preordained, Wilson was no prophet.

His mind was aching from the constant rerun of the day and he'd had perhaps an hour or so worth of sleep; determined to shut off his brain he slumped over to the right hand side of his bed, careful not to anger his agitated thigh (though it still moaned admirably). Neon light flashed at him, glaring at his lazy form that dared to request rest: 8:00AM. He groaned, burying his head deeply beneath the pillow before mentally berating himself for the action: today was supposed to be the dawn of a new day, a new Greg, and there he was late for work and steadily reverting back into his usual self.

No, he had to try.

Bolting upright he sent his leg into a fit of spasms, he felt the rush of hot blood coarse through his veins; his fists delved down beneath the covers to ease the pain away. His eye lids fused shut, blotting out the dazzling pain emanating from beneath his fingertips. Who was he kidding?

He _needed_ Vicodin!

No. He didn't _want_ Vicodin. _So what? That's utterly irrespective of your requirements. _

He couldn't have it. _That's it then, nothing to worry about._

He grew weary of battling with his conscience; it was rude, sarcastic and invasive of his deepest emotions. Reaching out to his side cabinet he withdrew a container of ibuprofen, whilst continuing to massage the missing muscle tissue in vain. He popped off the top before spilling part of its contents into the palm of his hand. Prodding them with his forefinger he contemplated the little pills before him: ibuprofen for chronic pain, what a farce, they barely take the sting out a headache and now he found himself sat there hoping for them to ease the torturous screaming of his severed nerve endings, what an absolute fucking farce. If taking them would make no difference then he saw little point in the action, he tossed them at the opposite wall before sliding across the bed to sit with his legs dangling towards the floor; from there he began his morning routine.

* * *

Everyone has busy days. Regardless of occupation, at some point, everybody, man or woman, would have one. For a hospital administrator these days were more frequent than they were for most, and they were almost always more intense; a hectic life combined with a demanding career resulted in a lot of frantic rushing around whilst trying to balance a dead weight of emotion on your shoulders. Yes, everyone has busy days. _Deal with it Lisa_.

The uniform tap of her heels graced the corridors of her hospital with a resigned urgency: she had a board meeting at 10:00AM; she had a face to face confrontation with an angry lawyer and his client to attend to at some point; she had to oversee the practice of the entire radiology team to clear them of a bogus malpractice insinuation; she had to reply to at least twenty lengthy e-mails that her assistant apparently just couldn't fathom a response to; and she had to see _him_.

Her feet continued to tap out their accustomed rhythm, guiding her to destination number one. She had to pause: the clinic was bedlam. Peering over at the nurses' station she could see her manicured order and control totally depleted between the screaming mass of patients, and the complete lack of doctors. She reached over the top of the desk to gain eye on eye contact with the nurse that was frantically scribbling upon her paper work in an attempt to restore bureaucratic order to system. If only she were omnipotent, there'd be no need to delegate power.

Cuddy splayed her digits across the desks surface and sighed, "Good morning, how many doctors are currently in the clinic?"

The young nurse yelped in surprise, "I-I-er, just the two Dr Cuddy: Dr Spencer and Dr Taub."

Cuddy lowered her head, "Just the two?" Her voice wasn't angry, but it had the undertones of potential violence.

The nurse nodded her in agreement with Cuddy's dismay, "Yes, just the two. I don't think we were expecting to be quite this busy first thing in the morning."

Rocking back and forth trying to decide what she could do to restore some order to her surroundings, "You said Dr Taub is down here?"

The nurse nodded.

"Then the diagnostics team has no case." She concluded. "Have you seen Doctors: Foreman, Chase or Hadley down here?"

"Not this morning," she shook her head before then adding, "and I haven't seen Dr House either, and he definitely owes clinic hours."

Cuddy knew that much. However, after yesterday he was definitely going to be late; and clinic hours would, as always, be out of the question.

Recruitment for the clinic: not her favourite pastime, but it was a requirement that she had to fulfil. Dutifully she marched towards the steely doors of the closest elevator; somebody else's feet tapping an ulterior beat to her own. As she approached she could see the familiar briefcase dangling loosely within his grasp.

Arriving next to him, refusing to give eye contact, she smoothed down the front of her jacket, "Wilson."

"Cuddy," acknowledging her presence awkwardly.

The elevator within its steely confinement shuddered to a halt before the door slid open, welcoming aboard new passengers. Both Wilson and Cuddy momentarily stood aside whilst a wheelchair bound patient exited, and they in turn entered; the doors clanged shut.

They both stood there in the awkward silence for a few seconds, each not quite knowing what to say or how the other had interpreted last night's meeting. She was first to break the silence.

"I get why you went to his apartment last night, and even if he won't admit to it I know he appreciated it." She reached to the side and squeezed his arm.

Wilson laughed a little nervously, "I really doubt that."

Cuddy turned her head curiously, "Why, what did he do?"

"It's not so much what he did, more of..." he trailed off as the doors opened again, revealing the floor of their destination. Lowering his voice to avoid sharing any details with people within the vicinity he continued, "what I did."

She had detected the shame layering the undertones of his usually bright voice, "What happened?"

He wanted to answer but he'd then have to justify the actions of last night and that would require a fully fledged conversation, not just a moment's exchange, "It's a long story."

A long story? She didn't have time for _long _stories, not today. "I'm sorry Wilson, can we talk about this later? I've got a hell of a lot to do, an.."

Wilson intervened, relieved of the excuse, "Yeah, sure. I get it, busy day." He smiled and turned off into his office with a courteous wave of his hand.

Cuddy back stepped a little, "Wilson."

He poked his head out from his door, "Yeah?"

She played with the hem of her jacket guiltily: of all the doctors in this hospital she could be sure Wilson worked hard; she could be sure that he would probably be busy; she also knew that he would cave at her requests, "Have you got time to help out in the clinic?"

He didn't. He had piles of paperwork to sort through and he had some research that he needed to get done before his first consult, so naturally, "Sure, I'd be glad to."

Sweeping down the corridor before her nagging guilt complex gave her time to take it back, she called over her shoulder, "You're a real life saver."

Wilson watched her disappear before turning to the doorframe and pretending to beat his head against it playfully, "Busy day James, busy day."

* * *

The conference room was absent of the usual chatter surrounding a differential, and yet the diagnostics team were present, partially. Thirteen 's presence was nonexistent but the others didn't feel the need to draw attention to an open wound: she'd been acting odd for a few weeks and they deduced that she was just taking a break from the mayhem of working for House: she was probably just offering her services to the clinic. Taub was also missing, mostly because knew more than the others but decided to hold onto his information; they had very little to do that morning and he felt like his grip on Thirteen's secret could bring some entertainment to a potentially dull day.

"I guess we're not going see House anytime this morning," The Australian surgeon rolled a rubber band between his fingers before flinging it into the air.

Foreman's hand reached out and grabbed it before Chase could, "Yeah, I doubt we'll be seeing him at all today." He reclined back into his chair shaking his head, eyes tinged with concern.

"Standard House behaviour," Case added, he continued with lazy sarcasm, "It's not like he's a medical professional that actually has a job to do, why should he _ever_ turn up for work?"

Foreman whistled through his teeth, "you didn't see him last night, he was pretty ..." He tried to think of an adequate adjective.

"Depressed?" Chase asked.

Foreman shook his head, "Deeper."

"Deeper?" Chase searched for something further, "Angry, upset?"

Foreman chuckled slightly, "I think they're both lesser words there." He rubbed his eyes, "No, he was... broken."

Both pairs of eyes solemnly dropped towards the table whilst Foreman began to toy with the rubber band.

The dwindling team were alerted to the presence of Cuddy when they heard her stilettos marching down the hall, and were not surprised to see the lines of worry framing her face and crinkling her brow.

She entered the room and surveyed the scene, "I take it you have no case?"

"Nope." Chase replied with little enthusiasm. "House isn't in yet." He added needlessly.

Cuddy smiled delicately, "I gathered. I didn't come looking for him."

The two superfluous doctors exchanged a knowing glance; she had replied a little too quickly for someone with no agenda with Gregory House.

"As you're evidently very busy loitering about my hospital doing nothing, I suppose helping out in the clinic would be out of the question."

"Well actually.." Foreman began.

"No, seriously get your asses down there. You two are doctors; doctors are needed." She stepped back and extended her arm in the direction of the door, both stared at it reluctantly, "Go. Now!"

Hauling themselves from their chairs they simultaneously left the room and headed down to the clinic to join Taub.

Great, one task done, a thousand more to go. Destination number two: her office. She had to prepare for the board meeting that was in, she peered down at her watch, just over an hour. She quickened her pace whilst wishing she could block out the noises that her blackberry made as it beeped incessantly.

* * *

He was late, disgruntled, in pain, and missing three integral parts of his daily requirement: his team, a case, and Little Greg. He had obviously left his cane on site the night before, leaving him to hunt for it relentlessly that morning to no avail; he'd dug out another one from his closet but it didn't have the same friendly grip that his usual one had. He'd bought it sometime last year after Cuddy had 'stolen' Little Greg and cruelly stowed him away in a closet. Taking a deep breath he surged forward with his lopsided stride into Lisa Cuddy's office.

She looked flustered as he entered, rummaging through draws in desperate search of something foreign to him: paperwork.

"_You_ poached my team." He pointed steadily in her direction with his cane before placing it on the floor and leaning coolly against it.

He allowed his eyes to ram her body for a second, but only a second. She looked as she always did: beautiful, busy, and exquisitely _hot_.

She hadn't seen him enter but when she looked up she smiled at the comment, largely because she was happy to see that he looked fine; a little dishevelled and tired, but mostly fine considering the circumstances. "Were you using them?"

Pouting like a toddler House replied, "Yes mommy, now can I please have my dolls back?"

She eventually found her treasure within the trove that was her desk drawer, she dropped a pile of weighty files on her desk and leaned against them with relief flowing through her, "No you can't, they're doing clinic duty, and you have no case." She smiled at him showing neat rows of pearly white teeth perfection.

He strode toward her, "The crane driver.."

She held up her hand, "Has been diagnosed and is receiving treatment. No case, no team." She finalized.

It wasn't as though she was being intentionally abrupt with him, and he wasn't ready to condemn her for being so; but everything that had happened last night, particularly after she left had been so thoroughly overhauling of typical House that he was finding it hard to be who he wanted to be.

He arrived at her desk and perched himself on the edge, half leaning half sitting. He twirled his cane between his agile hands, eyes averted towards her ceiling.

She noticed his reluctance to looking at her, she could see from the way his shoulders sat that he wasn't totally comfortable, "House?"

"Hmm." His reply was as inarticulate as he could manage, he didn't want to ignore her, but he didn't know what to say or how to act.

She decided to ignore her stack of paperwork on her desk and instead manoeuvred her way towards the offices visitor, she placed a hand on his good leg, "House?"

He levelled his eyes to meet hers but chose to remain a dummy, silent and relatively unresponsive.

She laughed nervously, "Come on, I'm not a ventriloquist, I can't just pull what you're thinking out of your head."

Very slowly House placed his hand on top of hers, "You said we could talk."

Caught a little off guard by his sudden desire to share feelings she replied, "What, now?"

He held onto her hand a little tighter and stared into her beautiful and exhausted cerulean orbs, "Now." He nodded.

She honestly didn't want to turn him down, he looked vulnerable with his barriers lowered, with his soul bared to her without the barricades and snide remarks, "Can it wait a while?" There she'd said it, she was pushing him back and now she had to be prepared for the repercussions. She had to be prepared for him to storm out, or nonchalantly throw some sarcastic quips at her, and ultimately let her make a mess of things all because of a busy schedule.

He let go of her hand dejectedly, "Right I get it, hospital stuff's more urgent."

She took a blatant disregard for their privacy by cupping his cheeks in her hands before anyone lucky enough to be passing by and peering through un-shut blinds, "I'm sorry, but I have a board meeting."

He shook her hand away and nodded towards the outside of her office, "You sure you're ready to reveal this to everyman and his diseased dog out there?" He wasn't entirely sure what he was referring to when he used the word 'it', what were they? Cuddy was in a similar frame of mind and House could feel it. "This Cuddy, is why we need to talk."

"Yes we do." She conceded, "Yes we do." She ran a hand through her hair guiding stray locks back to their proper order, "Oh but today is just so hectic."

House interrupted, "You'll have to eat."

"Good point Doctor," Although she couldn't quite see his real point.

"You can treat me to lunch and then we can talk." He got up from the desk and headed to the door before she had time to form a reply.

She called to his departing back, "Wait."

He paused, his hand on the doorknob, "Mistress?"

"I-What..." She was interrupted by her phone ringing, "Just wait there."

House limped towards the couch and dropped heavily into it. He'd wait; he had nothing to do anyway.

Meanwhile, Cuddy's day got even more difficult:

"_I'm so sorry Lisa, It's just ... she needs me." _

Cuddy's Portuguese nanny was having a crisis, her mother was dying alone in her homeland and Marina had a duty to go to her.

"I have such a busy day." She sighed down the phone not knowing what to do, "Can it wait a few more hours?"

"_The only plane I can get on leaves in two and a half hours." Marina cried out in distress, "Can't you send somebody else to pick her up? Lucas?"_

She couldn't send Lucas, that wouldn't be fair. She had to get help from another source. Her eyes met the figure of Gregory House splayed out upon her couch. He had _nothing_ to do, she knew it. He even wanted to change, to make a difference, surely he wouldn't refuse her. There was an irritating little voice in the back of her mind, '_don't be a fool Lisa, as if you can throw Rachael into the equation right now, he'd probably reject the whole thing altogether!' _She rubbed her temples, seeking out a solution.

"_Hello, Doctor Cuddy?" The agitation was definitely increasing and the sound of a bawling infant could be heard in the background._

"Okay, yes. I'll send a colleague over." She suddenly felt a rush of sympathy for the poor girl, "You should go, she needs you."

Placing the phone back down upon the receiver she began to mentally rearrange today's schedule.

"So, lunch time. Pick me up from my office when you're all good and ready." House rose from his position on the couch.

She relented, it had to be done. "Right. It'll have to be cafeteria, I really have got a lot on."

"Good, we can have a session of Quid-pro-quo," he grinned at her, "you can take your first one now if you like."

He sounded serious, but would he tell the truth? "Are you going to give me honest answers Dr Lector?"

He waited a moment before nodding, "Always Clarice."

This was too big an opportunity to recklessly disregard, and before she knew the words had flown from her lips in a confusingly terrifying flurry of past pain and emotion, "Why did you kiss me when I lost Joy?"

He had braced himself for the reply that he knew would follow _that_ question, "You needed to be kissed."

He left the room with the words still suspended in the air between them; yes she did.

Before heading to her meeting Cuddy made one last call, "Wilson, I _really_ need a favour."

_Come on guys if you're putting the story on alert you might as well tell me what you're thinking; i'm writing for you after all. _


	5. Unlucky number Thirteen

_Apologies for the slow update, I hope you're still with me. This story would be at a standstill if it weren't for Tommy; I think we should all offer our thanks because on my own I couldn't have written it :)_

**Unlucky number Thirteen.**

The conference room was quiet, patiently anticipating the next case; it was bathed in the shallow light of half drawn blinds, the whiteboard clear with the absence of potential diagnosis. The empty day in the department of diagnostic medicine, heavily juxtaposed with the comparative hectic climate the rest of the hospital experienced. Through the glass panel the faint silhouette of Gregory House was visible.

Hunched over his desk it would appear apparent that anything other than the oversized tennis ball between his nimble fingers, would be plagued with his indifference. Severe concentration marred his features as the ball spun from one hand to another with the overwhelmingly dextrous skill that the surrounding walls had long since become accustomed to. He wasn't merely wasting time with pointless distractions; he was thinking. He had been waiting within his sanctuary whiling away the hours before his calculated and painstakingly constructed lunch: formulating answers to questions, tiresomely rearranging his body language, searching for the elusive words that he had no intention of releasing. He was scared. His time alone confined to the room in which he was the solitary inhabitant had provided his overworked mind with a flood of thought; he couldn't close of the dam that continuously spewed painful memories and dark insights into the future, he couldn't sever his attachment to the emotions that were coursing through his veins and infiltrating his mind.

His mind had strayed to the devastation of the previous day; to the girl he couldn't save. He had tried and failed. If only he could push her bewildered, tortured, dying face aside he could pretend that it didn't matter, that none of it mattered. But it did, it was personal and he had made it so. How could he not? Yesterday Hanna's leg was his, and fifteen torturous years of post infarction living had been ripped from the deepest crevices of his soul, hoisted upon show to a dying girl and thrust into the arena between himself and Cuddy. Their eyes flashed before his: beautiful cerulean orbs that in the midst of the dilapidated and decaying building unleashed the truth from his reluctant lips; the dark almost black ones of Hanna, afraid but fighting a war she was destined to lose. House pushed back into his chair and threw the ball at the wall above the bookcase; the sound magnified his tempestuous state of mind to an empty corridor. The ball ricocheted off the wall and landed neatly in the palm of his waiting hand. He had allowed her to see him weakened and defeated, prepared to accept the inevitable: she would never be his. He had said everything he did last night to enable him to let go of what he thought could never be. He threw the ball again, this time catching it with his left hand allowing his right the freedom to run its way around the scruff about his jaw line before continuing his trail of thought. He had resigned himself to letting go; a toast to her happiness. Yet she had come to him, professed her love and proved her desire. She had done all of this despite everything she could have had from Lucas; her new life had been abandoned for her to share in his misery. He didn't want to be miserable; he wanted the freedom to be happy or at least content. No, he didn't want to be fighting the permanently oncoming tidal wave of depression and loneliness; he couldn't bear to inflict his own overwhelming misery upon Cuddy.

House let his hand drop to the floor, the ball slipping from his grasp with a minute thud before redundantly rolling towards the bookshelf. He cast his eyes towards the mass of unfamiliar paperwork that had been scattered upon the desk. Most of it he would give to Foreman to sort through and the rest would either end up in the trash or would follow him around in the hands of the Dean awaiting his signature; House smiled lightly at the thought of her favourite type of harassment. Truth be told, much of his reasoning for neglecting the little sheets of paper that he used mostly as coasters, was that leaving them allowed Cuddy to chase him around with her ass swaying angrily towards him; she had huge sex appeal when she was pissed with him. Then again, she had huge sex appeal even when she wasn't. Lisa Cuddy was gifted. House lazily thumbed through some of the papers whilst his mind finally conjured up some alluring images of an extremely hot naked woman. Like the degenerate he was, his mind automatically began to form an alternate ending to last night's escapades. Just as his imagination began to run away with him in a somewhat pleasing direction one piece of paper caught his eye.

It was an envelope. Amongst the bureaucratic forms it appeared foreign: it was small and white with familiar handwriting emblazoned upon the front. It had been the penmanship that had caught his curiosity, it wasn't elegant, yet neither was it haphazard; it was neat yet unrefined, lacking the uniform of his own calligraphic style. He felt his stomach jolt a little with an uneasiness he couldn't fathom. He tore the side roughly and then unfurled its contents.

_House,_

_I'm grateful for everything you've done for me and helped me to achieve. You helped me stay for as long as I could endure; we both knew time would never be on my side, but you let me make mine worthwhile. I wish I could repay you by being professional and handing in my notice; I can't do that, I need to leave now. It's my time to go. _

_Remy Hadley._

He read it again. And again. He kept reading it hoping to conclude in a way that would make sense of the words that littered the page. She had given up, that much was clear. He shook his head and kneaded his temple with his fist in frustration. No, Remy Hadley had given up; Thirteen had gone, left the building and had even taken the trace of her name with her. His anger had begun to bubble to the surface, greatly aggrieved by the letter that he released from his grip allowing it to lie crumpled but open upon his frenzied desk. It didn't make sense: why had she isolated herself by making it so impersonal? Who the hell was Remy Hadley and why had she thrown in the towel and dragged Thirteen out with her? It wasn't fair; if he hadn't given up on life then there was no goddamn way she was going to. If he was about to jump into the furnace then she would sure as hell be coming with him!

Immediately he shot up from his chair, his leg protested in agony from the lack of pain relief; he was beginning to wish he hadn't denied his aching body the ibuprofen that morning. He limped over towards the chair upon which his cane rested, forgetting to don his jacket he exited his office, rolling gait hurtling down the corridor; the letter remained open upon his desk awaiting the curious eyes of others.

With each swaying stride and clatter of his cane upon the marbled floor, House continued the mantra in his head: it's time to change, time to save a life. His determination drew him closer towards the doors in the lobby, closer to his destination, closer to his time to matter. He had to bring her back because he had to prove to himself that he could help rather than hinder, save and not surrender. He wouldn't let Wilson's words prove him right; House had made his decision and bringing Thirteen back to the hospital was part of the master plan. If he could preserve a life and give it some meaning then it showed that he could care, that he could be responsible, that he was willing to go the extra mile for someone other than himself: ultimately, for Cuddy.

He reached the door, hand outstretched towards the glass barrier ready to push forth into the abyss; he didn't know whether his fate would be to fall or fly, but he planned on flapping his wings pretty damn hard. His hand felt the cool sensation of the glass upon his fingertips; the feeling reminded him that he was touching _her_ door. She would undoubtedly be waiting in her meeting right now, anxiously anticipating the moment she would walk into his office to find him splayed out in his chair, playing video games or watching a soap opera. If he walked out of that door she wouldn't know. She'd think he'd chickened out and couldn't handle the situation. She'd feel the regrets of her insane actions wash over her in a tsunami of helplessness and she'd hate him for letting her do it. He couldn't walk out and destroy the magnificent architecture he planned to construct around their relationship; he was working too hard in trying to open up and grow up, ruining it would be hypocrisy. After all, how could he justify fleeing the building to save Thirteen without taking the initiative to at least preserve what he had in his life before he left? He threw back his head and took a deep breath, he flexed his fingers in preparation before turning about his cane and marching back into the hospital domain; his feet carried him forth towards the Dean of Medicine's office.

Shunning crowds of patients and staff out of his way he surged towards the first floor. Upon arrival he knew that his initial thoughts had been correct: Cuddy was indeed still in the meeting. His eyes stared beyond the first set of doors and into the empty office within. He contemplated going to tell Wilson where he was heading but he quickly tossed the thought aside; he didn't intend to face Wilson for quite some time, he thought that if he got an apology from him then his avoidance would have been fully justified if not regarded as utterly pointless. He rubbed his temple, searching for an alternative messenger service. Perhaps he could send her a note? He soon tossed that possibility into his mental trash can; Thirteen's note hadn't brought him to a positive place, and he was in no mood for writing his own. He was getting irritated very quickly: he didn't know what to do about Cuddy, his gut was telling him to find Thirteen, and the Cuddy's new PA was babbling incessantly down the phone to the recipient of what House assumed was a very tedious conversation; probably as a result of the new PA's gross incompetence, or the receivers inability to speak English. His leg was beginning to throb like an anvil had been thrashing at it whist he stood by the door, god how he could use a Vicodin right now.

The repetitive lexicon of the conversation caused House to snap rather aggressively, he limped towards the desk and slammed his cane upon it causing the young woman to squeal in shock.

"Shut the hell up woman!" He shouted with imperative military order, "how am I supposed to think with you screeching down the phone?"

His angry outburst reminded him of his father, he shuddered at the thought but let it pass; the young woman on the other hand simply stared at him in shock. Her mouth hung loosely at the jaw confusion in her eyes.

Jesus he was having a bad day. He held his hand up in apology and signalled for her to carry on with her duty.

She continued without letting her disdained eyes loose contact with House's guilty ones, "Yes Marina, I promise Doctor..." she examined a sticky note attached to her coffee mug, "James Wilson will be there to pick up Rachael shortly."

House was suddenly disconnected with reality, had he really heard that right? Images of him sat on the bathroom floor with two Vicodin resting securely in his palm came crashing into the moment; seconds later she would rescue him from what had been a resigned fate, she had saved him and gave him the will to make a difference, the will to change and be the man she needed him to be. Those memories shattered in the seconds that the new PA announced the name of James Wilson, Cuddy's saviour, to his very ears. She had chosen Wilson over him.

"I'm sorry, I know this is hard for you, but Doctor Cuddy's having a seriously busy day." She was evidently trying to comfort but to little avail.

She had bestowed her trust upon Wilson rather than him, and it stung.

"Please try not to panic, he'll be there soon." Her voice rose an octave.

Granted, he didn't want to take care of a snotty little rugrat that whined and kicked and screamed at him.

"Okay, bye." She threw the phone upon the receiver in relief. She turned her head inquisitively toward House, "Can I help you?"

He shook his head. If Cuddy didn't trust him then he didn't see the point in leaving her a message.

The young woman second glanced at him; his hand was drawn tightly around the handle of his cane, the skin taught, knuckles white. "Are you sure?"

She didn't want him in her life that much was clear. He muttered to himself under his breath, "Screw you."

She heard him grunt, unable to define syllables, "Pardon?"

Turning on his heel he shouted over his shoulder, "Tell Cuddy that Wilson takes babysitting very literally, and that I would have turned her bastard child down anyway."

Oh yes, screw you indeed.

His wounded legs carried his heavy heart down the corridor, away from her office. His mind was set: he was leaving, done for the day. He would go back to his office, grab his back pack and search for a drink to soften the blow and his throbbing leg. He trudged angrily through the hospital barely aware of his surroundings. He didn't even notice that he'd already arrived and departed once again from his darkened office with his rucksack. He hadn't realised that he had opened the drawer of his desk and bestowed a full bottle of Jack Daniels safely within the bags confines. He was betrayed and he wanted a distance between himself and her that was so large that she'd need an expedition team to find him again. His mind was working so furiously trying to conjure up extremist escape methods that he hadn't noticed how far he'd limped. He shook his head, berating himself for his lack of attention; he decided to take a detour rather than turn back. His hand reached out to request the elevator, but before he had time to carry out the action the metal doors slid open revealing its occupant: Foreman.

"House, have you-" Foreman began.

House interrupted before he could ask his question, "I thought the slaves were all tied down in the clinic."

Foreman ignored the racist comment and pushed his way out of the elevator just as the door attempted to box him in. "We are. Have you seen Thirteen? I've been calling her cell all morning."

"And?" His face remained expressionless, his eyes fixed upon his cane.

Foreman shrugged his shoulders, "And... she isn't answering."

House reached out and prodded the button with his forefinger, eyes still averted, "No, I meant _'and' _as in so what?" he stressed his sarcasm to boiling point in his delivery.

Foreman was confused; House was avoiding something. It's also true that it's a rare occasion upon when House isn't avoiding something. However, he could see the pained frown lines adorning his forehead, and though his eyes were still downcast he had a feeling that they looked worried: something wasn't right.

He cocked his eyebrow at the suspicious behaviour, "House, have you seen Thirteen?"

"No." He made it as inconspicuous as possible, barely putting any emotion into it.

The elevator doors sprung open once again and House gestured for Foreman to step aside, to which he obliged. House entered under the pretence that he was free to escape, but Foreman couldn't ignore the suspicion arising from the pit of his stomach; something felt wrong. Just as the doors attempted to once again close he prevented the motion by pushing it aside.

"My god man, can you let me go already?" House said in clear exasperation. He had a place to get to, a person to bring back with him.

"You seriously haven't seen Thirteen?" His voice was strained with the onset of worry.

House could hear his distress and raised his head so they were at mutual eye level, "No, I really haven't."

Foreman entered the elevator, "Where are you going?"

"Why are you so concerned about what everyone else is doing?" It was a genuine question; he was no longer with Thirteen hence it looked a little pathetic to be pining over her to this absurd degree, and he had no idea about the note, he had no idea that House had any similar concerns to his own.

Foreman sighed, "Because Taub told me she left you a note."

Oh shit. Should he lie? Perhaps he should tell him and let Foreman sort her out, he'd probably make the dying girl feel better than he did; but this was his mission, he had set out to accomplish this. Who was he kidding? In his head it just made him sound conceited; he had made it his _mission_, how sad and deprived could life get to believe that load of crap to the extent that he did?

"You know about the note." House looked at him for further confirmation even though the answer would be blatantly obvious.

Foreman nodded.

House probed further, "Any idea what it said?"

Foreman shook his head.

After a long pause during which the elevator shuddered to a halt, House continued, "She's vulnerable." He addressed the floor rather than Foreman, he didn't want to influence his decision because he didn't know what he wanted the outcome to be himself.

"She's left, and you're going to bring her back?" he questioned.

House didn't answer, he just limped towards down the corridor on his diversion route that brought him past the clinic. Foreman tagged along by his side, firing question after question, eyes wide like a terrified puppy. House could see his colleague from the corner of his eye and the sight was begging to push his off button: if Foreman cared this much then perhaps he could, or even should, go instead. He stopped in his tracks besides the desk in the clinics centre, Foreman continued to babble and probe next to him; House chose to ignore him. Surely he cared just as well as the man who had followed him in distress from the elevator, he had already proved that. Hadn't he? He contemplated his motives but after brief analysis he deduced that they were plainly in his own self interest; finding Thirteen wasn't for her benefit, it was his chance to show that he could behave admirably; the consequences meant nothing to him, it was the action he needed to fulfil. It was selfish motives that had driven him this far, unlike Foreman who was clearly worried about his fellow. House felt sure that they still harboured feelings for one another, and he knew Foreman would never give up on her. He made his decision on a personal level, he had made it all about him. So what? Every action in life is personal, that's the reason human beings have the ability to think, feel, behave and be anything and everything to some degree. Yes this was personal, and he was going through with it.

A clinic nurse loitering around the station shouted over to them and interrupting House's train of thought, "Doctor Foreman, there's a patient unattended and waiting for consultation in room-"

House cut her off, "Find someone else; I need him to perform his black magic."

Foreman's tone of reply portrayed is his confusion, "What?"

"Keep up won't you; we're going to find Thirteen, and you're driving."

"We?" Foreman responded in surprise.

House sighed and tapped the floor with his cane in agitation, "Yes _we,_ my leg hurts so I need a ride. Besides, who's she more likely to listen to?"

Never had it taken House this long to simply exit Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, and after today's monumental effort it had better be worth it.

* * *

Foreman drove in Houses words, 'like a woman with piles'; afraid to move in the fear that a change in velocity could unseat him and his unusually cautious manner.

They pulled up outside Thirteen's apartment, taking a space probably belonging to an absent neighbour, "Jesus, you used to steal cars for a living and you can't even speed a little on the highway?"

"Sorry, I forgot how much easier it is to achieve a goal when your internal organs are sprawled out down the road." He quipped back sarcastically, but there was very little effort in it; he was tense.

Neither of them knew what they were going to say when they found her, if they found her. How do you convince a dying woman that life is worth living? How do you persuade her that her degenerative illness that would eventually claim her entire body wouldn't hinder her career? It's hard to bullshit your way through a conversation like that: they both knew her chorea was soon going to be at the stage where actively practising medicine was no option; normality was a gift that she would never again experience. Huntington's is a death sentence and Thirteen's future was preordained for everyone to see; perhaps it would take four years, or maybe just four months before she could no longer administer as much as a shot to a patient without her spasms causing her to flail wildly. She barely had a place in the world.

Their feet carried a solemn trail behind them, their steps becoming more reluctant the closer they got. House hesitated as they reached the door; he wasn't the right person to be doing this. Last time he had come she had been blind but there was hope, now her illness had evidently become to claim her body, dragging her beneath into the underworld where no doctor could claim her. He would say something cruel and insensitive, and if she was a vulnerable as he believed then it wasn't the right approach, but it was the only approach he had. He turned his head to Foreman, suddenly appreciative of the other mans company.

Tentatively Foreman nodded his head at House before calling out her name, "Thirteen?" He turned his ear to the door in hope of hearing a reply. He received no answer and called out again, "Thirteen. You in there?"

The hallway remained silent and cold.

House tapped the door twice with his cane hoping to gain her attention, if indeed she was within and not out getting drunk with her lesbian friends. He turned to Foreman, "This is your area of expertise, right?"

Foreman smirked, "Yeah."

House raised an eyebrow in speculation of the comment, "You gonna pick the lock then?"

"No House, she's obviously not in." He gestured towards the door.

"Just because _she_ isn't in, doesn't mean that _we_ can't go in." Sarcasm intertwined with his covert worry.

Foreman was in agreement. He didn't want to invade her privacy, but he couldn't let her follow through with whatever crazy plan she'd thought up; if it meant going inside and searching her apartment then he would do it.

His deliberation had been short and his conclusion decisive, "Okay."

House tapped his cane on the floor impatiently, "Come on then, pick the lock Goldilocks."

Foreman withdrew a key from his pocket, "No need." He placed it within the lock.

"You still have a key?" House added in surprise.

Foreman didn't answer; instead he turned the key and pushed the door forward to reveal her apartment.

House slowly strode into the apartment, Foreman followed cautious and slow.

Gregory House's eyes were keen, they missed no detail for there was nothing he overlooked. A shadow upon the wall cast by a glowing light held its place upon the paint; it swayed from side to side in slow almost circular rotations. His eyes analysed as his stomach turned. Following the course the light had travelled, his eyes met the light that incandescently framed the lolling head of a swaying corpse; neck broken, grotesquely rotated in the ropes suspension. Foreman's sight mimicked that of House's until he saw her hung from the ceiling,; blank eyes staring blindly into the back of her skull: dead.

_Remember to thank Tommy guys for helping to focus my muse ..._


End file.
