Your Hand In Mine, by Hihoplastic

Part One: Our Last Days As Children

Wilson's the only one who's asked. The others assume (correctly, he sneers) that, well, why should he care?

"Maybe he'll break out the bottle of Vodka under his desk," Chase shrugs, while Foreman counters (just because he can): "No. Now they'll have to find a replacement. Which is worse for him." He looks through the microscope again. "He'll probably get fired."

"And us?" Chase asks, and Cameron slaps the file against the table.

"Can you stop thinking about yourselves for one minute?"

None of them were close enough to care, but all of them are affected. They're hiding out in the fine line between what they knew before and what might come next, if this really does go the way it seems.

There was silence among the clinic nursing staff early in the morning two days ago when one of the patients switched the station from MTV to CNN. The newscaster with dark brown hair and a tiny nose was reporting a plane crash about three hundred miles off the coast of Ireland.

"Flight 311," he was saying, and then a child wailed loudly. "Mechanical failure" slipped through the noise and then Cuddy's new secretary, Jill or Jane or Josie, dropped the stack of files she was supposed to hand to Brenda. "Left Zurich this morning...fatalities unknown."

The secretary was pale and Brenda told the patient with the remote to turn up the volume.

"I booked that flight," whispered Jenny or Julia or Joanne, and by then all the nurses were staring. Brenda grabbed the secretary's elbow and quickly put her in a chair.

Wilson was walking through, eyes on a file. He was mid-sentence when he looked up, noticed the collective gaze to the screen. "What--?" he started as the newscaster was saying again, "from Zurich" and "help is already on the way". Wilson said, "Oh, God," and the secretary choked back a sob.

The patient approached one of the nurses and asked what was going on.

"The dean of medicine's on that flight."

"311," the newscaster repeated, "...doing everything they can...we'll keep you updated throughout the day."

House spends most of the day watching television, just like yesterday and the day before. He leaves at twelve to do his clinic duty (or rather pretend to do it (he's been taking full advantage of her absence)), discovers another crazy way to cure the patient, then returns to his office to pack up and go home.

It's only three.

Wilson stops him on his way out the door.

"Are you all right?" he asks, and still looks shaken.

Everyone and everything's functional but movements are halted and speech slightly hitched and eyes keep flickering towards the mounted televisions. No one wants to upset the patients so they keep smiling but there's a hushed, agitated whisper, and her secretary was found crying in the bathroom.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"House," he starts to lecture, but his cell phone goes off and he fumbles for it hurriedly. House makes his getaway.

He can hear Wilson's broken speech behind him: "Yes. No. I--you're sure? You're sure it's--yes. Yes, that's her, is she--can I--? Why--Fine. Tell her--hang on--"

He hears his name called, and turns back to see Wilson attempting a smile. "She's okay. She's one of the ones who--"

"Great," he says, and goes.

"You're not my husband," is the first thing she says when she gets back, her voice muffled by Wilson's shoulder.

"I had to think of something," he says. "They didn't want to tell me anything."

She nods, eyes discreetly scanning the people behind him. He notices but says nothing, isn't entirely sure who or what she's looking for. 'You didn't have to come get me," she says, and takes his proffered arm as they walk slowly toward the parking lot. JFK is huge and there's a lot of noise and a lot of people bustling around; someone's duffle bag bumps her arm and she sucks in a breath, squeezes her eyes shut.

"Do you need to stop?" he asks, then regrets it.

"I'm fine."

They make it to the car and he helps her in, avoids all pressure to her injured shoulder. He climbs in the driver's side and fastens her seatbelt, surprised when she doesn't glower or protest. An awkward silence falls and he clears his throat under the engine hum.

"I can't imagine taking another plane right after..." he says conversationally, but she shrugs.

"It was the fastest way to get back."

Her parents are there the next day, and her two brothers the day after. They stay for two weeks, until they're sure there's nothing more they can do. Her injuries aren't severe; she was one of the lucky ones--fractured shoulder, a few cracked ribs, cuts and scrapes and bruises.

"She's doing fine," her mother assures him when they think she's sleeping. She's on the couch, she says, so they can have the bed (it's easier to sleep on anyway) and they're in the kitchen, arguing in the dark.

"I'm not worried about her physically--she's a doctor, she can take care of herself--but her state of mind--"

"I know she takes these things personally sometimes, but..."

"Personally?" her father whispers harshly, and Cuddy turns her face into the pillow. "She was in a plane crash, for God's sake, Rachel! She could have died!"

"You think I don't know that!"

She slips off the couch as quietly and carefully as possible and sneaks out onto the patio at the back of the house. Their whispers are muffled by the wind and she wraps her good arm around her waist. It's comforting, for a moment, until the sound of the trees starts to sound like water and the creak of the porch swing as it moves sounds like bending, breaking plastic. She shudders, and starts at the soft voice behind her.

"You always did hate it when they fought," Patrick murmurs, draping a blanket over her and pulling it closed. She covers his hand with hers and smiles.

"At least they didn't do it very often."

"Only over important things," he says, and she nods slowly.

"I'm fine, Patrick. Really."

"Uh-huh," he smiles, and gently hugs her to him. "Of course you are."

Eventually they file out, Ben first, then her parents, then Patrick, who lingers just a little longer. He's always played the part of the Oldest Brother with gusto and compassion, and while she's glad to finally have the silence back, she'll miss his cheeky smile and warm hands.

It takes him another three days after her family has left to show up at her house. She's half-asleep on the couch but opens her eyes when the lock turns and almost smiles. He stands still in the dark, shadows on both of their faces as she struggles into a sitting position and gently pats the space next to her.

"Why are you sleeping on the couch?" he says instead, accidentally barely above a whisper.

"Bed's too high."

He nods, looks around the room. "Now you know how I feel."

If it's meant to be biting she misses it, only catches the awkwardness in his frame.

When she returns to work there are flowers on her desk and light applause from the nursing staff; a few of her patients saw the news and grasp her hands tightly, almost gratefully. Foreman drops by, flanked by Cameron and Chase who both smile uneasily. Her secretary hugs her awkwardly, but can't muster the courage to say I'm sorry.

House barges in about halfway through the day, gloating about the clinic duty he skipped and mocking her attempts to sign her name with her right hand. She snaps back like everything's normal, the way it was, but there's an undercurrent of something shifted, something wrong that's been added, and he stares at her just a little too long.

"It's been over three weeks. I'm fine."

He says nothing, studies her, the way her movements are slower and her eyes flicker and her shoulder is still in the sling. There's a bruise just below her hairline that's almost completely healed and more, he knows, hidden by her clothes. There's a slight noise from outside and she starts, eyes darting up only to catch his gaze.

She frowns. "Don't you have something doctorly to do?"

Wilson notices the shift but says little, just keeps bringing her tea in the mornings (House harps on him for that, too). She's making little things into big things and he's making more directed insults, things he knows will actually hurt.

"She keeps wearing these high-collared blouses; what else am I supposed to comment on?" he asks, and Wilson snaps, "Not that."

But House ignores him. Shots about babies and guilt and "I bet that kid died because of you, too" and Cuddy slams her hand on her desk. Whether it's about getting her to open up or getting the truth or solving the puzzle or just making her miserable, "That's enough," she says, and her voice shakes slightly. "There's enough to deal with without you--"

Her voice stops and the insinuation hangs in the air.

"Fine," he snaps, leaves.

She holds back tears.

When she lets herself into his apartment later that night she finds him watching TiVoed news reports about the crash. He looks at first like she's caught him off-guard and she takes advantage of it.

"Stop being angry with me."

"You cancelled my patient's treatment--"

"That's not what I'm talking about and you know it. Besides, you were counting on me to stop the treatment; some kind of lesson to your team or--"

"I thought this wasn't about the patient."

"It's not."

"Then why are you--?"

'shut up, House," she groans, sits next to him.

(What they'd stitched back together before feels like it's coming undone. It's always coming undone, she has to remind herself, but this wasn't her fault.)

"Why are you watching that?"

Aerial shots of the downed plane, bright yellow life-rafts and tiny floundering bodies; he can almost make her out, second to the left, barely in the shot, holding someone above water. They filmed the rescue mission, the two hundred plus survivors; they focused on the twelve dead, the one child.

"Quality entertainment," he says, and she scoffs.

"...in life-affirming displays of heroism, three of the passengers, the pilot, and co-pilot, both of whom miraculously survived the crash, worked together to keep everyone calm and together. Their actions undoubtedly saved countless lives. Michel Girard, Paul Breuer and Lisa--"

"Turn it off."

"What? You don't want to see yourself in all your glory--"

She leans forward and grabs the remote out of his lap. The room goes silent with the television and Cuddy stares at her hands.

"Why didn't you do the interview?"

"You know why. You just take perverse pleasure in hearing me say it."

"You can't save everyone," he snaps. "Thinking you can is stupid and selfish."

The double meaning is a slap in the face and she swallows, narrows her eyes. "You have no right to be mad at me," she says fiercely, but feels like it's a lost cause.

He says nothing, and she sighs, rises. "Anyway. I just came over to tell you that I spoke with Doctor Reichmann. He's going to send me copies of all the documents from the conference. I'll pass them on to you when they get here."

"Don't." She looks at him in mild surprise; he turns the TV back on, this time to a late night talk show. "I told you not to go."

She pauses, shrugs. "Deal with it. The files will be on your desk within the next few weeks. And if I find them in the trash..."

"You'll what? Dig them back out and beat me with them?"

"Possibly."

"It's not worth it."

"I don't think you get to be the judge of that."

He looks up, catches her gaze, soft and serious, and inclines his head just slightly. She moves back to the couch and sits; they say nothing, and the light from the television makes strange shadows on her face.

A few hours later he wakes up with a weight on his good leg. She's curled against him, head in his lap and her good arm scrunched under her; he can't see her face but her breathing's soft and steady and he stares at her for a few long minutes. She says something but it's indecipherable, shifts even closer; he knocks the blanket off the back of the couch and haphazardly tucks the corners around her, careful of her arm.

Sighing, he turns the volume down on the TV and switches the channel back to the crash.

Part Two: First Breath After Coma

She huffs, annoyed, sets her book down and glares. It's not a particularly interesting book--something she found on one of his shelves that was actually in English--but she's reread the same line four times now, unable to ignore him or steer him off course. He's resilient that way, she thinks, as he continues to bounce the small rubber ball off the wall.

"It's just puzzling," he says, turns to her and smirks arrogantly. "You know how I like puzzles."

"It's not a puzzle," she says tiredly, because it's the reaction he's expecting.

"It's loads of people kissing your ass, you'll love it."

"I'm not going."

He shrugs, throws the ball. It hits the wall with a dull smack, followed by a reverberation (followed by vibrations and flickering lights and the sound plastic makes when it snaps in half). She flinches; he pretends not to notice.

"You don't think that's disrespectful?"

She glares but only briefly, which tells him she's thought about that, doesn't want to think about it, and that he should press the issue.

"The other two are going. Ron and Harry."

"Paul and Michel. And good for them." She unfolds her legs like she's going to stand, shifts positions, settles down awkwardly. He throws the ball and watches her start; catches the ball and holds it.

"It'd be good press for the hospital."

She stands abruptly, grabs her glass of water off the table and heads for the kitchen. "Why do you care?"

"I don't," he calls, but she turns the faucet on loudly; he raises his voice to compensate. "I'm just curious as to why you don't either. These people want to shout your name from the rooftop; for once it'd be a celebration of something you did right instead of something you screwed up."

There's a loud banging sound that makes him wince and the water stops but there's no reaction. He sighs, hauls himself off the couch and follows her, unsurprised to find her braced against the counter, steadying her breathing.

"I don't want to talk about it," she says but doesn't turn. He shrugs.

"You realize that only makes me want to talk about it more."

She turns, glowers, but shifts under his gaze awkwardly. "House--"

"Why don't you want to go?"

She rolls her eyes, pushes off the counter and past him forcefully; he follows her down the hall to the bedroom where she's looking for her shoes, her clothes, still haphazardly spread over the floor. "They want to honor you," he presses as she trades his sweat pants for her skirt, refusing to look at him, acknowledge him. He says, with some scorn: "You're a national hero, you--"

"I'm not a hero," she says stiffly, forced.

"Oh sure, now you're humble," he mutters, rolls his eyes; but he's watching her closely, noting the jagged lines of her elbows as she shrugs into her jacket, the way she keeps her head bowed so that her hair covers her face, and how her voice is flat the way it always is when she feels too much, shares too little.

"I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

He shrugs. "Well, I agree with you, but try telling that to the children whose daddies you paper-pushed to safety. Never let it be said that your bossy hyena face doesn't come in handy in a crunch." He pauses, frowns. "No pun intended."

She spares him a glower, sits on the bed and tugs on her shoe; it's taking her longer because she's frustrated, and he sighs inaudibly, sits next to her and snags her other shoe with his cane before she can reach it.

"House--"

"You were in the right place at the right time for a lot of people," he says, voice edgy and abrupt. "It doesn't make you a hero. But it makes you a hell of a lot better than the guy next to you, who was also in the wrong place at the wrong time."

She says nothing for a long moment, just watches him spin her shoe around on the tip of his cane absently; he can feel her eyes on him, knows she expects him to either continue hounding her or change the subject, throw her for a loop. He knows what she expects and he knows what she wants, and he's been wondering (grudgingly) if maybe they can't be similar things.

"Are you...consoling me?"

He winces, more for show and looks up at her with a wry smirk. "I'm trying not to."

She smiles, just the corners of her lips curved up, and her eyes soften, still guarded, still bright but less so; she looks like she could lean on him, but doesn't. "It's not working."

He nods. "Good."

"So."

Wilson gives him a look. "How are you and Cuddy?"

House glares. "How are you and Cuddy? Any more erotic art shows you want to embarrass yourself with?"

"It was not erotic. It was...modern."

"Erotic."

Wilson tries not to sputter. "You weren't even there."

"Yeah, but she told me all about it. About what that one guy did with that pole..."

"There was no pole."

"Well you couldn't actually see it, it was so far up--"

Wilson huffs. 'seriously."

And House scoffs, his tone suggestive. "You're telling me."

'seriously, House," he says, lowering his voice. "How is she?"

"Eccellente. Très bien. Perfecto." He avoids Wilson's gaze.

"Psychologically," he amends.

"Oh." House looks disappointed for a moment. "I thought you meant in the sack." He shrugs. "I have no idea."

"Are you seriously still trying to convince me you're not together?"

"I just admitted we were sleeping together. I never said we were emotionally involved."

"You've always been emotionally involved when it comes to Cuddy."

"Only when she takes away my toys." He palms a Vicodin for show and Wilson rolls his eyes, does his best not to be amused.

"I'm worried about her. She seems..."

"Fine," he says impatiently.

"Exactly."

House pauses, looks at him with one eye open. "...That doesn't make any sense."

"She was in a plane crash, House!" Wilson snaps, then quickly calms himself with a glance toward the diagnostic lounge where Chase and Foreman are not-so-subtly trying to listen in.

House is muttering, "Why do people keep reminding me of that--"

"She's not supposed to be fine."

"You want her to be screwed up?" He bounces his cane on the ground a few times, then points it at him. "You have a strange way of caring."

"At least I don't pretend that I don't. She should be getting some help."

"I've been trying to tell her that for years, but, pshaw, you know administrators."

"House--" Wilson sighs, shakes his head in defeat; then comes back with: "Did she say anything about the ceremony?"

"She's 'not going'."

"Why not?"

"Guilt," he says, gives him a look. "Duh."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Right, I forgot--the simplest explanation's always--"

"House." Cameron comes in unannounced. "Patient's jaundiced. And her kidneys are failing."

"Well, I'd love to stay and chat more about how much you care, but my patient has two new exciting symptoms, things we've never seen before! It could be important."

He stands awkwardly, his voice a falsely cheery contrast to the way he leans heavily on the cane.

Wilson sighs, waits until Cameron is out of the office and House is just under the doorframe. "She should be getting some help," he says.

House's eyes cloud slightly but his face remains the same. He sighs. "Yeah."

The files come and she puts them on his desk and he throws them in the trash. He leaves and she checks his office and with a sigh digs them out, takes them home; he's sitting on her couch with an open bottle of beer and she takes the heaviest file she can find, smacks him on the back of the head. She's angry but tired and apathetic and she knows, deep down, that she just cares too damn much, and it's hurting them both.

"I told you to look at these."

"And I told you I wouldn't."

"Something in here might help you," she says, her voice laced with impatience. "God forbid, something you haven't thought of."

"I've thought of everything."

"How do you know? How do you know for sure?"

"Because I've tried everything and nothing--"

"Nothing helps except the Vicodin. And the morphine." She folds her arms across her chest. His jaw tenses. "In ever-increasing amounts."

"Whatever works," he snaps.

"But it's not working, House, otherwise you wouldn't need more pills or injections or whatever else it is you've been using to take the edge off; you'd be on a reasonable dosage--"

"Oh, there's that word 'reasonable' again."

"Another year of this and your liver's going to be shot. You're already building a tolerance to the drugs, which means you'll have to take more, which means--"

"Which means I won't be in pain!" He hauls himself to his feet, rounds on her. "Why are we even having this discussion? I'm in pain, I take pills, my pain goes away. It's a simple formula. You just keep trying to compromise your way around it, compact the problem into some quick fix with no outside ramifications."

"I'm not looking for a quick fix, I'm looking for something permanent."

"Well, stop."

"I'm the dean of medicine, House," she says suddenly, voice tight and raised and he stills. "I'm the dean of medicine and I took five days out of my schedule to fly to a foreign country for a seminar on pain management programs. That alone, I can guarantee, is more than anyone else would be willing to do for your sorry ass, excluding the fact that the plane crashed--"

"Which is entirely irrelevant to your argument, since you didn't know the plane was going to crash before you booked the flight--"

"I did it for you!"

"Well I didn't ask you to!"

"You didn't have to!" She sighs.

He looks away and her voice falls into a whisper. "You've never had to."

She waits but he says nothing. "I think you should leave."

He grabs his coat off the back of the couch and glares.

"Way ahead of you."

He leaves and the door slams and the reverberation makes her queasy; the silence is heavy like water-filled ears and she leans against the doorframe until she can walk.

She makes tea, changes her clothes, runs a bath and her hands shake. Her reflection is a white-grey and her lips are blue and she's been seeing the same thing every morning for the past two months; her hands and shoulders and stomach are lightly tanned when she looks down but in the mirror they're grey and white and blue and the sound of the running bathwater grows louder and louder until it's roaring and she's bracing her hands on the sink; until the next thing she knows she's sitting on the floor with her hand in a towel and the shards of her mirror litter the floor. There's no pain, just red on the tile and a fierce, dull pain in her chest that remembers, that equates.

The smell of lavender fills the room and the silence returns to normal; the running water softens. Her hand stings.

"What happened?" he asks the next day, eying the bandages with nonchalance.

"Car door," she says curtly, refuses to look at him.

He snatches a file and disappears into another exam room. She doesn't watch him go.

"Whatever you did wrong," Foreman says five days later, "fix it. I don't care if you have to get down on both knees--"

"Logistically impossible, but a nice thought."

Foreman rolls his eyes and glares. "She's making interns cry," he says. "Fix it."

"She's...moodier than usual," Chase says carefully, and Cameron even drops the defensive long enough to watch her from the corner of her eye and say, "Is she all right?"

"How should I know?"

"Well, I--"

But House walks away before she can finish her insight.

"What happened to your hand?" he demands.

"Car door," she replies, doesn't look at him.

"Cuddy--" he starts.

"What?" she snaps, and he feels like there's nothing left to say.

When he opens the door he finds her curled in the corner of the sofa, glasses on, a pile of pain management articles at her right. There are sticky notes and pages and pages of translations and she has a little notebook on the arm of the couch, pen in her left hand, the cast only a few days removed. She looks up when the lock turns, looks away as he shuts the door.

"I should really move that key."

"Yeah."

He stands awkwardly, like he's about to bolt, like he'd shift his weight from foot to foot if he could.

"There's coffee in the kitchen," she says, makes a bulleted notation.

"Stop," he says, and she looks up. "Stop trying to fix me. Stop thinking you're going to do it with a miracle cure from Zurich."

Her words, "I wouldn't have to if you'd do it yourself," should be sharp and bitter but they fall flat and he sighs, moves slowly forward and sits in the adjacent chair.

"Ever think there might be a reason that I don't?"

"Crossed my mind. But then I decided arrogant bastard who likes his misery fit better."

"You're actually angry about this."

"Brilliant deduction. No wonder I keep you on the payroll."

"It's my leg, my life."

She looks him squarely in the eye. "Then stop making everyone around you suffer because of it. If it's really such a solitary issue, House, you'd let it go."

"No, if it wasn't such a painful issue I'd let it go."

He sighs, turns away. "Look," he starts, she interrupts.

"I understand," she says, in a soft voice, but strong, sure. "You'll probably never believe that, but..."

He's quiet a moment, says (but not angrily): "This isn't about you." And she finally meets his gaze.

"No, it isn't. It isn't about me, or Wilson, or Stacy, or anyone else."

"Then why did you--"

"I was wrong. I shouldn't have played that card. I shouldn't have brought the trip or the crash into this because you're right. It's not about that. I was trying to get through to you, and..."

He scoffs quietly, stands, paces a few feet, turns back and gives her a penetrating look. "You've been doing this for years. Random detoxing, saline, crazy treatments, flights to Bosnia--"

"Zurich."

He points his cane at her fiercely. "That's everything coming to a head. You think that if you can help me, if you can fix my leg or my life, that will alleviate some of your guilt."

She shrugs. "Maybe. But what's so bad about trying to right a wrong?"

"It's annoying."

She smiles, then, shakes her head, places her notebook carefully on the floor and moves to where he stands, shoulders tense and back arched and watching her warily. She reaches up and kisses him, keeps kissing until he responds, rests his hand awkwardly at the base of her spine.

"Suck it up," she whispers, lips against his in a soft, teasing smile.

He raises his eyebrows, leers slightly. "Is that a dare?" and she gives him a mildly disapproving look.

"House," she starts, but he pulls her back, mouths crashing and arms tightening, bodies like magnets. He skates his hand under her shirt just to feel skin and she stands on tiptoe, trails kisses from the corner of his mouth, along his jaw and down his neck. He straightens slowly, kisses dragging, breathing heavy. "You're too short," he mutters, his back and neck protesting their bent positions.

"You're too tall," she counters, just out of habit. "What'd you say we move this to a more level playing field?"

He smirks, finally, follows her down the hall; she looks small and uncertain standing in her large bedroom, blouse already unbuttoned.

He moves close, leans his cane against the foot of the bed and fingers the edges of her open shirt, small frown in place. "That's my favorite part."

"No, your favorite part is--"

And he kisses her fiercely, rolls his eyes against her grin. Everything dissolves into warm hands and teeth and lips and he knows he's supposed to be angry and it has something to do with his leg (he took an extra pill on his way down the hall, so it's quiet) but her skin is smooth under his tongue and all he can think is, "See? This is a much more effective way to settle our differences."

"They aren't settled, they're just--" She gasps, and he grins triumphantly. "Postponed."

"I'm all for procrastination."

"House?" she murmurs, tightens her fingers in his hair. "Shut up."

"Yes, mistress."

She wakes up hours later to tight lungs and the sound of whirring air and slips quietly from the bed and into her robe. Cold water and a broken reflection in the mirror she hasn't gotten fixed, dark circles under her eyes accentuated by the lighting and House's voice, soft and slightly angry.

"You slam your mirror in the car door too?"

She whirls, grabs her chest. "Christ."

He pauses, studies her. "What happened?"

"Nothing." She looks away, wipes her hands carefully on a towel, shrugs. "I was upset."

He looks ridiculous, leaning on the doorframe in nothing but his boxers, hair mussed and frown lines etched into his face. "'Upset' is screaming into your pillow. Putting your fist through the wall borders mental breakdown."

She folds her arms across her chest and turns to face him. "I'm fine."

"It's been two months. If you're still reliving the event--"

"I'm not. I'm fine." She drops her arms, raises her chin. "Really. I just want to go back to sleep."

"If you can," he says, words halting her as she tries to slip passed him.

"House--" she starts, stops, sighs. "You coming?"

He pauses, looks away. "I should go."

She nods, understands, slips off the robe and climbs into bed, listens as he rustles around for his clothes. She closes her eyes and tries to even out her breathing, tries to pretend she's asleep. He doesn't buy it, but doesn't say another word as he leaves. She hears the front door close and lock and she opens her eyes, stays awake for the rest of the night.

Part Three: The Moon Is Down

It doesn't take long for word of the mysterious pamphlets and business cards that appeared on her secretary's desk to circulate through the hospital. The nurse's station is a hub of talkative energy and House smirks, leans back against the wall near the elevators to admire his handiwork.

"What?" House asks innocently. "Everyone can use a little therapy."

"Starting with yourself."

"You're the one who said she should get some help," he accuses.

Wilson shakes his head, attempts a glower. "Yes, but by 'getting some help', I meant you should help her," he emphasizes, "not...embarrass her in front of the staff."

House looks at him, confused. "They aren't the same thing?"

"You are so dead."

"Oh yeah," he smirks. "She'll just eat me alive." He pauses. "Hopefully."

"You're disgusting," Wilson mutters, tries his best to escape.

House raises his voice. "Hey, they say make-up sex is the best."

"I'm not listening to you anymore!"

"So do we know for sure?" the nurse whispers, leaning forward.

"I heard she's seeing Dr. Greenwall--"

"Here?"

"She wouldn't see a doctor in her own hospital," another nurse cuts in. "It has to be Patterson over at General."

"But what about that one from Mercy--"

The slap of files hitting the counter makes them hush, look up. Nurse Previn smiles coolly. "Don't you have work to be doing."

She doesn't phrase it as a question.

If Cuddy knows anything about the hospital's new gossip, she gives no indication of it during the board meeting. She's all restrained smiles and crisp words and emphasis on important issues, like always.

Wilson can tell, just by the way feet are scuffling under the table, that her calm appearance is disconcerting people. They want to ask (politely, of course. With respect. With no judgment whatsoever) but she's making it difficult for anyone to broach the subject.

Nobody manages.

The room clears out and Wilson lags behind, watches her as she methodically gathers her things. He approaches cautiously.

"You okay?" he asks, the perfect balance of casual and concern.

She pauses, her fingers stilling on the handle of her briefcase. She looks up at him, her face blank. "I'm tired of this," she says, and brushes past him before he can ask of what.

Wilson sighs and leans against the wall next to Cameron. "How long have they been at it?"

Cameron looks at her watch. "About ten minutes." She looks over at him. "Is this about the shrink papers?"

Wilson hesitates. "I don't..." He shakes his head. "It can't be. House has done much worse to her over the years. "I don't think leaving contact information for Princeton psychiatrists with her secretary would get her this...livid. In his own twisted way, he was trying to help. I think."

Cameron just gives him a look. "He left them in plain sight. The whole hospital knows."

"Knows what? That Cuddy suffered a traumatic event and might be looking for counseling? That House is an ass? We already knew that." He shakes his head, turns and looks back at House's office.

They're standing in the middle of the room, both gesturing, barely a foot between their bodies. Even from across the hall Wilson can see House roll his eyes, sigh dramatically, can tell by his facial expression and the way Cuddy's shoulders tense that he's just said something unnecessarily cruel. He sighs.

"Is there something going on between them?" Cameron asks suddenly, fixing Wilson with a sharp, steady gaze.

Wilson shrugs. "There's been "Something' going on between them for the past twenty years."

"Are they sleeping together?"

Wilson hesitates, and that's all the answer Cameron needs.

They look back up as the door slams open; Cuddy disappears as a wave of anger down the hall and House is leaning heavily against his cane.

Wilson pushes off the wall. "Whatever it is you need him for, give him a minute. Unless you enjoy getting verbally eviscerated."

"Where are you going?"

He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. "I have clinic duty."

He inhales, counts to three, then pushes the door open slowly on the end of a knock. Her head snaps up and he can see her facial expression shift from angry to polite to frustrated when she realizes it's him.

"What do you want, Wilson?"

He stops in the middle of her office, blinks. He wasn't expecting hostility, not towards him.

"I, uh...are you okay?"

"I wish people would stop asking me that."

"Sorry," he says, moves slightly forward. She's standing behind her desk, organizing things, shuffling things. Idle frustration. He frowns. "What did he say?"

"Does it matter?" she snaps, drops a thick folder on her desk.

"Obviously, if it's got you this upset. Cuddy..." he pauses, speaks carefully. "He didn't actually...do anything. I mean. You've put up with a lot worse than this."

"Yeah, and I'm getting really sick of it."

"And so...this is what you're choosing to fixate on?"

She slams a drawer and looks up at him fiercely. "Is there something I can help you with, Wilson, or are you just here to annoy me?"

"No, I--Cuddy." He studies her sharp movements, the dark circles under her eyes. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Her voice is angry and exasperated. "I swear to God, Wilson, if you ask me that one more time..."

"Right," he murmurs, turns to go. "Good night."

"Yeah."

The lights are out in her office and she's sitting on the couch, staring at the darkness. She feels more than hears his entrance, his presence looming over her shoulder.

A long silence passes.

"This isn't working," she says finally, her voice barely breaking the quiet.

He leaves without a word.

There's that sound again, breaking through the silence. It's fast and deep and fills every corner, every inch of blackness around her eyes, tinged with dark blue and bright red and God, her head is screaming.

There's nothing anymore, nothing except that sound taking up oxygen; her eyes fly open and the water rushes in; all her lights crackle and sparks fly and she's screaming, reaching out and searching for him between all the flailing legs and arms and the white faces with wide eyes and she grabs his hand but then she goes up and he goes down and the water's rushing and the plastic's breaking and something's pressing hard against her shoulders, harder and harder and she gasps and the sounds die off but her face is soaking wet.

The phone rings and she inhales heavily, wipes the tears fiercely from her cheeks and rolls over. The phone shakes in her hand and she coughs to clear her throat but her voice is still too soft but it's just her secretary, calling to tell her the meeting with the Stellars has successfully been moved to next Wednesday and that Brenda opened the clinic early and to ask if she can take the rest of the day off.

"Of course; thank you," she says, and hears the hesitation on the line, hears the question before it's asked and interrupts, "Thank you for the call. I'll see you on Monday."

She hangs up before any last minute details are remembered and drops the phone on the bed. Every bone in her body cries for rest but her brain's still swirling, still recalling image after image whenever her eyes are closed so she keeps them open, throws back the covers and leans over to the nightstand.

After a few moments of searching through the drawer she pulls back with a large stack of pamphlets, brochures, business cards and letters of recommendation. She leafs through them until she finds a name she recognizes and might begin to trust, and before she can tell herself it's weak or stupid or that she doesn't need it, she punches in the numbers and evens her breathing to the sound of the line ringing.

He looks up at the sound of a knock, tries not to brace himself when she enters slowly. "Hey," she says. Her voice is soft, weighted. Wilson relaxes slightly.

"Hey. What's up?"

She closes the door behind her, moves awkwardly to the center of the room. "I, uh...I wanted to apologize. For the other day. I was unnecessarily rude to you." She shakes her head. "It wasn't your fault."

He shrugs, gives her a small grin. "I'm used to being the sounding board."

"Punching bag was more like it."

His smile widens. "Well, that too."

She returns the gesture but it doesn't last.

He wants to ask if she's okay, if there's anything he can do but he doesn't want to push her, doesn't want to make it worse. He's never been quite sure of their boundary lines, whether they're friends or simply co-conspirators, but he knows that seeing her like this, quiet and unsure, isn't what he wants. Isn't her.

He clears his throat, meets her gaze. "Look. Um. I was just wondering--that ceremony thing. This is probably not my place but if you're going, if you wanted me to uh...I mean, I'll go with you. If you want. Not--not like a date, just..."

She smiles briefly. "Thanks. I appreciate that. I--" She looks away, shakes her head. "I'm not going."

Wilson nods. "Okay."

She looks back, slightly surprised, and Wilson can't help but smirk. "If you want to be grilled for a reason, you're in the wrong office," he says, points over the balcony.

"No kidding," she murmurs, but there's a hint of exasperated affection there, and it gives him a bit of hope. There's a brief silence; she fingers the pens in the cup on his desk and he stares at the bones in her fingers.

"I have an appointment with Dr. Meyers tomorrow afternoon." He tries not to look surprised. "Good, that's good, I mean you--are you--"

She inhales sharply, drops her hand and looks up at him. "It's...a good idea."

He stutters slightly. "We're just...we care, and we're--"

"I know," she murmurs. "Thank you. And I'm sorry for--"

"Don't be," he says, waving it off. He pushes his chair back and stands, moves around the desk. She tracks his motion but doesn't move away.

"Wilson--"

"Don't be." His voice is firm.

She smiles. "All right." "Let me know how it goes?"

She nods. "Yeah."

He smiles back, hesitates, then leans forward and gives her an awkward hug. She smiles against his shoulder, returns the gesture. When he pulls back she sees his eyes over her shoulder, feels his back tense.

"Great," he mutters.

She turns and sees House standing on the balcony, his jaw tense and eyes narrowed; he's throwing pebbles at the window. "I'll talk to him," Wilson assures her.

She turns back to him. "It's okay, I've got it."

"Are you sure?"

She laughs softly, smiles. "Yeah. It's just House."

The files from Zurich aren't in the filing cabinet she put them in. They aren't on the table or in her bedroom or in the study. She looks in her car and her kitchen and the bathroom; she looks in her office and in the room where the board meets; she checks House's office and Wilson's office and even goes so far as to ask Cameron if she's seen anything lying around.

She knew, of course--knew from the moment she found them missing exactly where they"d gone.

Self-delusion, she thinks bitterly, angrily, and pushes open his office door. "You took the files."

He looks up, plays innocent. "What files?"

"From my home. The files from Zurich."

"Ah." He nods once, looks at the floor. "Yeah, I did."

"House."

"Technically, I just took them back, because you gave them to me--"

She folds her arms across her chest and glares. "And you threw them away, signifying that you didn't want them, ergo finders-keepers."

His face contorts and he mock-sputters, "How immature! You know, possession is nine tenths--"

"Are you going to read them?"

"Nope."

"Then why can't I have them?"

"Because you will read them. You'll read them and then you'll think you've found something and you really won't have but you'll bring it to me anyway all excited and then I'll have to crush your little hopes and spirits by telling you that it won't work."

"Crushing hopes and spirits, isn't that one of your favorite passtimes anyway?" She turns towards the door. "Just give them back, House, or I'll turn your apartment inside-out looking for them."

"You don't have a key."

"Wilson does."

"Ooh, bringing The Other Man into it."

"The Other--oh, for God's sake. You know what, I'm not going to get wrapped up in this soap opera world of yours. Look," she glares, "if I promise not to try and heal you will you just give me the damn files back?"

"Yeah," he's muttering, "'cause we both know how that works out."

And something snaps. Her arms drop and her voice raises and lowers all at the same time to the point where he can barely hear her and yet he doesn't miss a word.

"I went to that conference for you, you son of a bitch. I have risked my job for you, my hospital for you; I've lied and perjured myself--for you!" Her voice trembles slightly but it's so strong, so forceful that all he does is roll his eyes slightly, start to turn away.

She laughs wryly. "And you know what the best part of it is? Besides, of course, the fact that you don't give a crap?"

"Enlighten me," he snaps, and she almost smiles. It's awkward and self-deprecating and so very, very bitter.

"The best part is that even knowing what I know now, knowing that you faked the rehab, I still would have lied for you. And that matters and you hate it because it blows holes in your theory that nothing does. That everyone and everything is irrelevant. If I care, then you matter, House." Her voice is almost a sneer. "And that terrifies you."

"You have no idea what terrifies me."

And as quickly as her anger came it leaves and her shoulders drop. She moves closer to him, around the desk and resists the urge to drop to eye-level; to take his face in her hands and make him look at her, make him see her.

"Then explain it to me," she says softly. "Stop treating me like I don't understand pain, like I don't have any idea what you might be going through. Maybe I don't. Maybe I'll never get it." She catches his gaze firmly. "But that's not going to stop me from trying."

He stares straight back. "It's not going to stop you from failing, either."

The expression on her face remains the same but her eyes soften. "Yeah," she murmurs, and even though it doesn't show he knows he's hurt her, knows by the way she straightens, by the way she moves slowly away from him towards the door. She stops, one hand on the glass; she doesn't turn back.

"I want those files on my desk by tomorrow afternoon, or I'll come get them myself."

Three days later she finds the stack of files on her living room table, all perfectly in order, compete, untouched, just like she wanted and yet it hurts to look at them, to hear how they so obviously say, happy now? in that caustic tone. In the way he ignores her, punishes her.

"It wasn't supposed to be a trade," she says softly, and regrets the words as soon as they're spoken. She shouldn't be telling Wilson this, or if she should than why does it feel so much like a conspiracy?

But Wilson just nods, touches her arm gently.

"No one has ever done something like this for him," he says. "He doesn't know how to handle it."

She shakes her head. "He's not grateful, Wilson."

"No, he's not. But I think...maybe we're all underestimating how much this affected him. He's known you for over twenty years, and you could've died."

She scoffs. "So I should be flattered that he's angry because he doesn't like change?"

Wilson gives her a look. "He's not a teddy bear. He's not going to cuddle you, or..." He sighs, searches for the words. "It freaked him out," he says finally. "And he's still reeling from that, in more ways than one."

"Yeah," she agrees softly, "aren't we all."

He's watching the ceremony on television when Wilson comes in. The director of the FAA and the Vice President are giving speeches on the White House lawn. There's a small, personal audience of survivors and family members, a few important figures in government. The pilot and co-pilot are in uniform, the heroes are in tuxes.

Wilson drops his coat and briefcase, sits down on the couch. House gestures to the TV. "They got medals," he says.

"They mention Cuddy?"

House nods, doesn't bother to hide his distain. "The Surgeon General accepted the award on her behalf."

Wilson shrugs. "Fitting, I suppose."

"You think they"ll mail it to her?"

Wilson frowns. "Why are you so bitter?"

House says nothing, glares at the TV. Wilson stares at him, waits a few long moments then gives up, stands.

"She should be there," he says suddenly, flatly.

Wilson sighs, looks from the TV to House's profile and back again. "Yeah. She should. Instead she's at home, by herself, feeling guilty." His eyes narrow. "Wonder if there's a way to rectify that."

"A beer would be a good start. Since you're up."

Wilson sighs. "Not what I had in mind."

Part Four: Have You Passed Through This Night

The meetings with the psychiatrist go well, for a while. The nightmares gradually begin to lessen. She stops seeing pale blue faces in the mirror, stops imagining screams. The world stops spinning; Wilson's hand on her elbow doesn't make her jump; the sound of running water, the whir of machinery, it's all tolerable. Everything returns to normal--slowly, cautiously.

Then a British Airways flight to JFK goes down over Greenland and no one knows why.

The nightmares come back and her appetite disappears and she feels like she's falling faster and faster, just waiting for the ground.

Her shrink asks her if she'd be comfortable increasing the number of meetings per week, at least for a while. She doesn't know what to say so she says yes, frowns when he stops her on her way out the door.

"I also think you should consider cutting back your time at work. Unusual amounts of stress aren't going to help."

She nods, says she'll think about it and knows she won't.

She spends Saturday afternoon curled on her couch with sunlight streaming in and the remote clutched in her hand. They're doing an investigative special on the two crashes, comparing licensing and mechanics and fatalities.

Her mother calls her around noon and demands in a worried tone if she's all right.

Cuddy doesn't have an answer.

Seven dead, twelve dead, twenty-four dead. The London flight had three hundred and fifty-two passengers. Twenty-nine. Thirty-five.

"Lisa," her mother says. "Lisa, do you want me to come out there?"

She shakes her head, forgets she can't see her.

"Lisa?"

"I'm fine, Mom, really," she says, and is surprised that her voice sounds so reassuring.

Wilson calls later, around six, and hesitantly asks how she's doing. She says she's fine, mutes her television.

She doesn't know what to say or think or feel because she's been there, been there just a few months ago and it's still so raw that she knows, knows everything. Everything except why, and how.

"It is still being determined if this was a mechanical or pilot error," a representative says in a clip from a news conference from several days ago.

"Do we know yet if this is connected in any way with the 311 crash?" a reporter asks.

"Not yet," the rep says, shaking his head. "Once all the pieces of the plane have been examined we"ll have more information. We're just thankful that for a flight so large, the casualties were so few."

The reporter thanks him and the story carries on with more interviews and statistics and comparisons and few, Cuddy thinks, closes her eyes in anger.

They label the two crashes as an "unfortunate coincidence," until another two weeks after that another plane goes down over Belize, and a day after that a satellite falls into the Indian Ocean. It's the story on all the news stations, newspapers, radio shows. The buzz in coffee shops, lines at the grocery store.

It's a conspiracy, it's terrorism, it's just weird coincidences, it's aliens, it's Armageddon; it's Russia, it's Iran, it's Korea, it's the United States. No one knows so everyone speculates and she can feel the panic bubbling, barely restrained.

She can feel her own panic at the back of her throat every time she closes her eyes; she sees white limbs and black water and this can't be right. She can't sleep and she can't eat and when she does she feels sick; the circles under her eyes are becoming harder and harder to hide and House hasn't said a word.

He's still angry, in that sharp, quiet way where he says little but everything he does say stings.

She wants to be angry at him for that but she can't; she's too tired and too guilty and she keeps rethinking things, reframing them so that it's all her fault, her mistake. By the end she wants to apologize, but she doesn't know what for.

When she finally does go see him she finds his office dark, back-lit by the moon and the light from the street lamps teasing through the blinds. The blue glow from the computer screen makes deep shadows on his face, darkens his eyes. She lets the door shut quietly behind her. He looks up.

"I'm sorry," she says on the end of deep breath. "About before. The last couple of weeks...months." She tries to smile but it dies fast. "I...I shouldn't be...none of this is your fault."

He stops typing and looks up at her, leans back in his chair. "Your shrink tell you that?"

She grins wryly, shakes her head, moves further into the room. "You heard about that, huh?"

"I hear everything."

"Yeah," she mutters, rolls her eyes. He stares at her and her expression softens as she lowers herself into the chair opposite him, the desk a comforting barrier between them. "No, he, uh...no. We don't talk about you."

"I'm hurt. I go out of my way to cause pain and stress in your life and when you finally do get the chance to complain about how awful everything is, not a word?"

"We were focused on more important things than skipped clinic hours."

House gasps. "There's something in life more important than the clinic? If only I'd known. I'd have skipped more often."

"I don't actually think that's possible. And the clinic is important."

"So, he tell you which developmental stage you're stuck in? I'd go with anal, but that's just based on--"

"I have post-traumatic stress disorder."

The words sound strange in her mouth. She's said them before but always about other people, about patients, about possibilities.

She can still hear Dr. Meyer's voice when he gave her the diagnosis, suggested adding yet another hour to their time.

House pauses, looks away, down at his desk for something to do, something to distract him. There's nothing, so he looks back up.

"Fun."

"Not really."

"I'm pretty sure that's not something heads of hospitals are supposed to have."

She almost laughs and shakes her head. "You're not that lucky. I spoke with the Chairman. Three hours a week with a psychiatrist for the next two months, to start. If it gets better, I can stop, if it gets worse..."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"You'll find out eventually. And you won't torment me as much if I've taken the puzzle out of it."

"Wanna bet?" he asks, and there's something in his voice that's too hard, too serious, and she sighs, speaks tiredly.

"What'd I do this time, House?"

His eyes flicker to hers for a brief moment, then away. He says nothing. She stares at him and he stares at her and finally she nods, pushes herself out of the chair.

"Okay," she says, resigned. And leaves.

Wilson catches up to him in the cafeteria three days later.

"You're an idiot," he says, cornering him on the checkout line.

"Oh, good, you're here. You pay."

Wilson glares. "Have you talked to Cuddy lately?"

"Yup. Just this morning. Complimented her boobs."

The woman in front of them turns around and gives him a nasty look.

"House," Wilson reprimands.

House raises his voice. "Did I say boobs? I meant shoes. You know, they're just so similar--"

"House--"

House nods to the register and Wilson groans, pulls out his wallet.

"It's our first date," he says cheekily, then leans in with a stage whisper, "He thinks if he feeds me I'll put out." The woman gives Wilson a sympathetic look and hands him back his credit card.

House makes a mad dash out of the cafeteria towards his office, but Wilson stays right on his heels.

"Seriously, House."

"If you care about Cuddy so much, why don't you help her? Missionary's not exactly her favorite position, but I'm sure you'd work something--"

Wilson moves awkwardly in front of him, halting his gait.

"Stop it. Stop deflecting with sex references and gay jokes--"

House's eyes go wide and he raises his voice again. "Cuddy's gay? If only I'd known. I'd have called Cameron over to--"

"This is serious!" Wilson hisses, notices the attention they're getting and drops his voice. "Cuddy needs you."

House pushes past him. "She doesn't need me. We're not together. I'm not her boyfriend, I don't have to wipe every salty tear--"

"She's terrified!" Wilson all but yells the moment they're in his office. "She thinks she's losing her mind!"

House slams his tray on the desk with more force than necessary and drops into his chair. "And the fact that you know this means she's talking to you. Good. You be the shoulder to cry on."

Wilson sighs, scrubs his hand over the back of his neck. "I haven't been talking to her, House. And she hasn't been talking with anyone except that psychiatrist she sees only a couple times a week."

"Then why do you assume--"

"Because I'm at least reasonable enough to take my head out of my ass for five minutes and look at her!"

"You know, I think I like you better when you're cheating on your wives. At least then you aren't trying to weasel you way into position of marriage counselor."

Wilson's eyes narrow. "You know what your problem is, House?"

"Here we go."

But Wilson just sighs, shakes his head and turns toward the door. He stops halfway out, turns back. "You're gonna lose her, you know. And this time it's going to be real. I just hope you're ready for that."

Cameron bursts into his office forty minutes later and tells him to turn on the news.

Four separate buildings in Arizona, all in different cities, caught fire overnight. Two farms went up in Nebraska and an entire row of penthouses in New York is nothing but ash.

Ash, House thinks, hauls himself out of his chair and towards the patient's room.

When he passes through the clinic that night to leave, everyone's eyes are glued to the mounted televisions. He stops, looks around.

"Florida, Nebraska, Arizona, New York and California," Cameron says, appearing at his side. "Nothing too damaging, considering, but..." she shakes her head, stares at the news report. "It doesn't make sense."

She waits for his little anecdote, never sure if she'll feel better or worse, but comforted in the knowledge that it's coming. However this time he turns, leans across the counter and hollers at Nurse Previn.

She rolls her eyes and excuses herself. "What?" she snaps, folds her arms.

"Mistress of the Night--where is she?"

Brenda shrugs. "Dr. Cuddy said she was going to get some air."

House nods, turns back toward the elevator. He stops after a few feet and looks over his shoulder.

"Cameron." She turns her head. "Your mom lives in California, right?"

She nods, tries to mask her surprise. "Yeah, Orinda. Why?"

"That's less than twenty miles from San Francisco. You talk to her yet?"

Cameron shakes her head. "I haven't been able to get through."

He nods, pauses, then reaches in his pocket, pulls out his cell phone and tosses it to her. She catches it awkwardly, frowns. "Keep trying."

Cameron opens her mouth, confused and touched and tries to think of something to say. She stares at the phone for a moment, smiles. "Thank you--" but when she looks back up he's gone.

It's too dark to see much of anything except the dots of light from surrounding buildings. Clouds coat the sky, hiding the stars and it's so fitting, she thinks, that the beauty's gone and now there's just concrete and fluorescent light.

None of it makes any sense. It's either just a bad year or it's all related but either way, she grips the railing tighter and squeezes her eyes shut. A siren wails, and the sound almost brings tears to her eyes.

The door moans open, then, and she braces herself. A few moments later she feels him at her side, leaning heavily against the concrete wall, following her gaze.

There are a hundred things she wants to say, and none of them come to mind.

"There were sixty-seven fires today across five states," he says finally, his voice old and gruff, like he's aged ten years. "All of them started randomly, none of them have stopped. No one can figure out how they began, or how to calm them down."

She looks over at him, takes in his hunched stance, the way he's leaning so far to the left, the way the lines on his face have suddenly deepened. He feels her gaze and turns his head, stares back.

"Is this one of your elaborate metaphors?"

"No," he shrugs, "there actually were fires. But it is kind of fitting, isn't it?" he says after a pause. "We fight, the world goes up in flames."

She shakes her head, looks away. "We're not fighting."

He raises his eyebrows. "We're not?"

She sighs, closes her eyes. "Nothing's changing, House. You're an asshole, I'm a pushover; I'm going out of my mind and you don't give a crap."

"At least you're finally accepting the fact that--"

"I can't do this anymore," she says, steps back from the wall. "I'm sorry."

She's almost to the door when she hears his voice. He hasn't turned, and she wishes she could see his face.

"They can't put the fires out, Cuddy," he says. It sounds like a plea, but she knows him better than that. She shakes her head, pulls on the door handle.

"Goodnight, House."

She leaves later than usual and listens to the eleven o'clock radio news summary on the way home. In the past two weeks there's been another downed plane--small this time--a fallen satellite, and two fires in Hong Kong. A city in the Amazon is flooding and something in Los Angeles collapsed, but she shuts off the ignition before she finds out what.

Every bone in her body aches and she has to lean against the door to open it, fall against it to close it. She remains there for a long moment, completely still. With a sigh she pushes herself upright, locks the door and makes her way down the hall.

She flips the light on, moves to put her coat in the closet then stops, frowns. She backs up and looks into the dining room. On the edge of the table is a tall, thin vase with beautiful white flowers that she knows aren't hers.

"You really should lock your door," he says, and her heart jumps, her body too tired to follow through. She turns toward the living room, sees him sitting in the far chair. He's turned the light on, and she can just make out the faint smirk playing across his face.

"I did. You stole my key."

He makes a who, me? expression and heaves himself out of the chair, ambles over to her slowly. She turns her attention back to the vase, walks towards it.

"Did you put this here?" she murmurs, touches the petals gently. She tries to mask her surprise when she looks up at him but it doesn't matter; he's staring intently at the floor, bouncing his cane awkwardly. He makes a noncommittal grunt in the back of his throat and she smiles, looks back at the arrangement. "They're...beautiful," she murmurs, then frowns slightly, turns to him again. "What do you want?"

He looks up, a mock-hurtful expression on his face. "Why do I have a want something? Can't I just be nice?"

She rolls her eyes, turns and moves to put her bag on the table in the hall, hang her jacket in the closet. "You always want something and you're never nice and whatever it is the answer is no."

He follows after her aimlessly. "What if I wanted to take you to Tahiti?"

"I'd pay good money to see you in a speedo."

"$100 bucks and you're on."

"I doubt it's that impressive."

He leers, raises his eyebrows suggestively. "Oh, you never know."

"Actually, I do know, and--"

She stops, he smirks.

"Gotcha."

"Ass," she mutters.

He almost grins. "That'll cost extra."

She gives him a disapproving look before turning her eyes again to the flowers.

They're standing in the hall, in the archway between her living room and her dining room and they're so close that she can feel the heat from his skin but she's so unsure. It hasn't been like this, not lately. Not even little moments, just a constant pulse of anger and fear on top of everything else and he's been so far away, every time she's needed him most and yet it's so tempting to just close those last few inches and lean her head against his chest, to feel his hand at the base of her spine.

She straightens, leans back just slightly and gestures to the vase.

"What is this?"

"They're orchids."

She gives him a look. "I can see that."

"Know where the name comes from? The Greek word, orchis, meaning testicle. Not as romantic as everyone thinks, huh?"

She stares at him for a moment, then breaks into a soft smile and shakes her head.

"You're impossible."

He shrugs, closes the space between them. "I think you're confusing impossible with irresistible. It's a common mistake, seeing as they both start and end with the same letters--"

"What are you--"

"Happy birthday," he mutters, covers it with a kiss. It's the first time in two months that they've been so close. He doesn't know how to apologize, she doesn't know how to accept forgiveness but his hand is on her arm and it fits, somehow; she kisses him again.

"Thank you."

Wilson catches the ball, throws it back.

"So."

"How are--"

House throws the ball at him with extra force. "We're fine."

Wilson smiles.

Part Five: Remember Me As A Time Of Day

She gives him a patient with abdominal pain, fever and nausea.

First it's kidney stones, but the ultrasound reveals nothing.

When the vomiting sets in, they test for food poisoning.

"Botulism," he says, sends them to her home where they find moldy leftovers and suspicious looking lunchmeat. But the EMG is normal and Cameron's not convinced and honestly neither is House; he lets them test for Guillain-Barré, but before they can do the spinal tap the patient screams in pain and coughs blood and can't breathe and her lungs are filled with fluid. They eliminate bronchitis, and cystic fibrosis. Chase tests for TB, and they put her on a ventilator and test her heart and her heart fails. Her lungs collapse and her kidneys shut down and her fever skyrockets and they try to stabilize her but it happens too fast. House is researching in his office at two in the morning when Chase comes in, exhausted and stunned.

"She didn't last two days," Cameron says, not quite understanding.

"Go home," he mutters.

Cuddy finds him in his office the next morning, books all over his desk, eyes bleary from the computer screen. She sets a cup of coffee on the bookshelf behind him.

"How's your patient?"

"Dead. Thanks for asking."

"What happened?"

He glares up at her. "I don't know. Parents won't let me--"

"I'll talk to them," she interrupts softly.

He nods, looks back at his books. She leaves quietly.

Two days later the girl's mother is admitted with abdominal pain, vomiting, and a fever of 106˚.

"Now will you let me autopsy?" he demands, through a speaker from the other side of the door.

"Patient's in quarantine; you go in, you suit up. We have all our symptoms. I want ideas, don't care how stupid. We've got about eight hours."

Wilson takes over while House disappears to autopsy. They write down anything that comes to mind, but by the time he comes back two hours later the patient's on a respirator and she needs a kidney transplant. Cuddy says no and House doesn't blame her but acts like he does; they're in the middle of a screaming match when his pager goes off.

"What've you got?" he demands before he's even in the room.

"Autopsy results," Cameron says. "Yersinia pestis."

"Yeah, only not," Foreman says, hands him the results.

"Chase is putting her on streptomycin, just in case--"

"It's not the plague!"

"You have a better idea?" Cameron snorts. "Something neurological maybe? Munchausen's?"

"It makes more sense than--"

"Shut up. Both of you. Foreman's right, it's not the plague." His frown deepens as he stares at the page. "It just looks like it. Keep searching."

The whiteboard is a mess of ideas. Symptoms circled and crossed out and random diagnoses in a variety of colors. House transfers his gaze from the board to the autopsy report, and back again. Wilson sits in the chair at the opposite end of the table, acting as the sounding board.

He watches him carefully, noting the way he's sitting so straight and tense, the way he isn't pacing like he normally does, the way his leg is stretched out in front of him, rather than hooked over the table. He doesn't quite understand why, but there's something about the image that's wrong, and he knows it isn't the case making it that way.

When there's a lull in the differential and Wilson takes a deep breath, tries to sound casual and fails.

"I know you've got other things on your mind," he says carefully. "But there were several waves of fires in South Africa and in Brazil. And a shuttle that was supposed to go up yesterday backfired, killed thirty people."

"Are any of them related to my patient?"

"No--"

"Don't care."

"House--"

"I know," he mutters. Looks away momentarily. "How is she?"

Wilson sighs. "Not good."

He nods, looks back at the whiteboard.

The patient doesn't make it to morning.

"Time of death, 1:06 AM."

"Complete organ failure."

"The antibiotics did nothing."

House shakes his head. "Go home. Stay home."

"House--"

"Have a nice weekend," he snaps, leaves them all in front of her room, watching people in hazmat suits take care of the body.

Foreman tries to glower but he's too exhausted, gives up and leaves. Cameron lingers, and Chase stays at her side.

She can't hide her guilt when he opens the door, too tired and haggard to be annoyed.

She takes a deep breath, steels herself. "Four patients were admitted last night with similar symptoms: a husband and wife in Trenton, one at Princeton General and the other in Chicago. They want all of your records and accounts of the first two patients. I've already spoken with your team, and I can take care of the documentation. But I need you to write up a summary of events."

He nods--"Fine."--and starts to close the door. She stops him.

"This is serious, House. Two people are dead and more are symptomatic and if it really is contagious than we need to figure out what it is as soon as possible, and I know you don't like working with others but--"

"I said I'd do it."

His voice is low and thick, like he's having a hard time coming up with the words. He keeps the door angled in such a way that she can't see the half-empty bottle, the open morphine kit on his coffee table.

"Okay," she says. Her shoulders slacken. "Thank you."

He shuts the door, and it takes her a long while to muster the strength to walk away.

She spends the night in front of the television, vaguely watching news reports of the escalating disputes between the US and China over airlines and flights and businesses. Her eyes keep falling to the scrolling text at the bottom of the screen, the Breaking News! of fires in Malaysia, another fallen satellite. During a routine military test in Syria, a missile launcher backfired and killed forty soldiers.

"What they aren't telling you is that Syria thinks we did it and we think Israel did it and Iran is just looking for an excuse to get involved," her brother says; she can hear shuffling in the background, an elevator ding open.

"Therefore it makes perfect sense that they're sending you there," she says, sarcasm as heavy as she can make it, worry just barely underneath.

He shrugs. "Gotta go where the stories are, sis."

"Don't call me 'sis'. And Syria? Really?"

Patrick sighs. She can hear a door swing open, hears him thank the bellhop and close the door and drop bags on the floor.

"Jordan, actually. Slightly more neutral ground, at least for the time being."

"I'm entirely convinced."

"Lise..."

She sighs, rubs her temples and closes her eyes briefly. "I know. I just..."

"I'll be in London for most of the time. I'm more interested in where the Prime Minister stands on all this; it's Jody that wants me down there. And only for a few days."

"I hate your boss."

He laughs, and the sound calms her for a moment, makes her smile. There's a pause, then: "Is it okay for me to ask the question now?"

"I'm fine, Patrick."

"Uh-huh," he says. "I'm entirely convinced."

Cuddy rolls her eyes, starts to protest and suddenly finds that all her excuses are gone, all her little white lies missing and the breath she draws is shaky. His voice softens.

"It's okay, Lise. Is there--is there anyone, there, that you can--are you--"

"I...have friends," she murmurs, trying to convince him as much as herself. "And I'm seeing someone. A psychiatrist."

"Good. I hope that--good."

She brightens her tone, tries to compensate for the tears on her cheeks and the heavy feeling in her chest. "I'm gonna be fine."

"I know," he says, and he sounds so sure, so confident. It makes breathing a little easier. "You should go. Get some sleep."

"Yes, mother."

He laughs again. "Good night, Lisa. Ahavah."

She smiles. "Ahavah."

Monday morning he drops his report on her desk, then locks himself in his office. He ran out of pills around three in the morning, came in at six to dig his stash out of the bottom drawer, only to find it missing. He tries to pace, but the pain is too much. Tries listening to music, debates rerouting the pain like he did last time.

His team comes in around nine; he sends Cameron and Foreman to do his clinic duty and tells Chase to sort mail. Five minutes later he drops a pad and pen in front of him.

"I need more pills."

Chase looks up, annoyed and slightly angry. "I'm not an idiot."

"I'm not a cripple. Oh wait," he starts. Chase glares. "I ran out."

"Ask Cameron."

"She won't do it."

"Neither will I." House sighs heavily, tries to shift his weight.

"Don't be manipulative."

"I'm in pain."

"Ask Wilson."

"I can't."

Chase raises his eyebrows. House hesitates, and Chase nods slowly.

"Not exactly his fault," he says, pulls the script closer and picks up a pen. "Your track record is--"

"You're going to lecture me and give me drugs?" Chase smirks, tears the script from the pad.

"Cuddy would believe you," he says. House looks up sharply, masking his shock. Chase shrugs. "Just saying."

House nods slowly, suspiciously. He holds up the script. "Thanks," he grunts.

Chase nods. "You're welcome."

It's dark and late and he's still in his office, researching and theorizing and staring at the whiteboard, scrawled with symptoms.

"Another five people were admitted yesterday in Jersey. Three in New York, and seven in Chicago."

"Prognosis?"

"Death."

"Cheery," Wilson mutters, drops into the chair next to House. "Any ideas?"

"It's the plague."

"Cameron said it can't be--"

"That's because it's not. It just...looks like the plague."

Wilson raises his eyebrows. "You're thinking mutation?"

House sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. "I'm thinking in circles."

Wilson nods, studies him for a moment. His eyes are bloodshot and his shoulders are slumped and his hand is gripping his bad leg, every so often trying to massage it, but giving up quickly.

Without looking at him, House rolls his eyes. "Stop psychoanalyzing me. You suck at it."

Wilson smirks tiredly, averts his eyes.

"Cuddy asked me to do her patient's MRI today," he says offhandedly. House stills, looks at him with raised eyebrows.

"She say why?"

"Busy."

House leans back in his chair, sighs quietly. "Right."

They sit in silence for a long time.

She opens the bathroom door, steps into the bedroom and gasps, presses a hand to her chest.

"Jesus, House."

"Move your hand; I was enjoying the view."

Her shoulders slacken and she drops her arm, moves closer. "I didn't think you were coming."

He shrugs, looks awkward in the dull light from the hallway. "Got bored."

"Have you found anything?"

He shakes his head. "Wilson thinks I think this is my fault. The plague."

"Got any pet locus we don't know about?"

"Nope." He frowns, tilts his head slightly. "That dog might have had fleas, though."

She blinks in surprise. "Dog?"

"Never mind."

He studies her, how the light plays off her cheekbones and hollows her face.

"You've lost weight." "I know." He can't read the emotion in her tone.

"Don't let the twins shrink. I like you better with curves."

She glares. "I like you better silent."

He smirks, looks away for a moment. She sighs.

"You don't look so hot yourself." "But I'm not losing sleep over Korea's nukes or Moscow's heat wave." She catches his eyes. "Hard to lose sleep when you don't get any in the first place." "Ah, but I'm used to it. It goes with my flow. You, on the other hand, get cranky." "I'm not--"

"What's your shrink say?"

She narrows her eyes, folds her arms across her chest defensively. "Are you asking because you care or are you asking because you're an asshole?"

He shrugs. "Can't be both?"

She sighs. "'Think less, sleep more'." House nods, considers. "He give you anything?"

"A headache," she deadpans. He gives her points for that, but silently. "You refused medication." "Did you come here for sex or did you come here to lecture me?" "Both, actually. I like to multi-task."

"House," she mutters.

"You're not sleeping, you're not eating, you're irritable--"

"I'm not--"

"You're scared."

There's a sharp pause. Her voice drops to a warning tone, but it isn't as convincing as it should be.

"I'm not scared."

He moves closer, tries to crowd her space. "Then why did you make Wilson do your patient's MRI?" She looks up at him in surprise. "How did you know about--" then stops, glares. "It's nothing. I've been busy."

"And Wilson hasn't? He does have his own patients, despite the fact that they all die--"

She takes a step back, tries to move around him. "It's nothing. I was busy, he offered."

He steps in front of her again. "He didn't offer." "House--"

"MRIs are big. Loud. Lots of lights," he points out, almost casually. She sighs, exasperated. "They're only scary if you're inside one, House."

"Or if you think it's something else."

It's an accusation, but his voice is too soft, too understanding and her throat tightens. Her muscles slacken and she feels all the fight disappear as suddenly as it came, feels too tired and empty to even meet his gaze.

"It's the same sound as when the engine stalled," she says quietly. "Just before--"

She doesn't say anything else.

He doesn't touch her, but they're standing so close that he almost doesn't need to, just needs her to tip her chin and look at him, just needs to be able to see her face. He doesn't mean for it, but the low, gravely tone of his voice comes out almost coaxing. Almost caring.

"If you're not talking about this stuff in therapy, Cuddy, what the hell are you doing there?"

She looks at him then, unguarded. "I'm trying," she says.

He holds her gaze for only a second, then looks away, nods. He turns, moves to sit on the edge of the bed, rubs his leg absently. She notices, but says nothing about it.

"Is Wilson right?" she asks instead.

He frowns, looks up at her. "Nope," he says, then pauses. "Right about what?"

"Do you think this is your fault?"

"I think that's your area of expertise. Well, that and--"

"Yeah, yeah," she mutters, moves closer. "Insert sexual joke here."

"Good one."

She rolls her eyes, amused and exasperated and surprised when he grabs her hand, pulls her between his legs, his cane between them.

"Two legs are better than one."

"Mature."

"Cuddy," he says, and she bends down, kisses him softly. It's slow and sweet and perfect until he drags his lips across her cheek, licks her face. She pulls away, wrinkles her nose.

"Animal," she mutters. He tugs her closer, hard enough that she stumbles into him, both hands on his chest. He scrapes his jaw against her neck.

"Wanna tame me?"

She laughs quietly, then pushes him back and straddles his waist, leans forward, lips against his ear.

"Wanna try."

She wakes up when the bed rises, blinks against the dark and stretches; they're both surprised when her hand brushes his arm. He's half standing, weight entirely on one leg. He moves jerkily, shrugs on his shirt and starts looking for his jeans. She sits up, tracks his movements for a long moment.

"You don't have to go," she says finally and even though her voice is quiet it startles him. He turns, studies her.

"You want me to stay?"

She shrugs, her voice betraying little of her actual feelings. "You never do."

"That wasn't an answer."

There's a pause; a little silence that means far too much. But it's been such a long week (month, year) and she doesn't care, not anymore.

"Stay."

He smirks, limps back to the bed. "That an order?"

"No," she murmurs, fingers a loose string on her comforter. "But I think your ego can handle one night of cuddling."

"One night of cuddling is equivalent to two months of clinic duty."

She scoffs and turns away, lowering herself back down into the pillows. "You're not getting time off."

"You really don't understand the art of compromise, do you?" he mutters, pushes the covers away and sits, carefully uses both hands to swing his leg up onto the bed.

"Shut up," she mumbles, reaching around behind her to grab his arm and tug him closer; she holds his hand against her chest and pushes against him until she can feel the warmth from his body all along her back and legs.

House rolls his eyes, shifts into a more comfortable position. He nips at her ear, her neck, her shoulder. She murmurs something incomprehensible, pulls slightly away.

"You're no fun," he mutters, barely at a whisper.

"I'm loads of fun," she mutters back, half asleep. House almost smiles, rests his chin on her shoulder and closes his eyes. He waits a few minutes, until he's sure she's just about to fall asleep, then asks,

"I seriously don't get out of clinic duty for this?"

"No," she laughs softly, eyes still closed. "Good night, House."

"Night, Cuddy."

Part Six: Magic Hours

"I have found Jesus!"

Cameron looks up, Foreman glares and Chase gives him a mock-confused look. "I thought you were Jesus."

"Nope. But you can call me 'Suga Daddy--'"

Foreman rolls his eyes. "I assume you're referring to the guy in Costa Rica?"

He nods, throws a patient file on the conference table and sits, uses his cane to drag the empty chair closer. "He saw Jesus levitating through the streets," he says, uses both hands to lift his leg onto the seat, hides his grimace. "Turns out it was a lamp post and the guy was on heroine, but still. Jesus." He turns to Chase with sarcastic glee. "Aren't you excited? It's your messiah!"

Cameron glowers. "Can we talk about our patient?"

"Patient presented with joint pain. On the other hand, over a hundred people since six o'clock this morning have reported seeing images of Christ. Which is more interesting?"

"Uh, the dying patient."

"Detox isn't interesting. The second coming of Christ, on the other hand."

Cameron ignores him, turns to Chase.

"Fatigue, chest and joint pain. Could be lupus."

Chase opens his mouth to respond, but House cuts him off.

"This makes absolutely no sense. I'm a big, scary doctor with a weapon--" he points his cane at them for good measure, "and I can't get three lackeys to admit they're idiots and that this guy has a drug problem. Alfonzo, on the other hand, has gathered six hundred people in the last two hours to follow him around, looking for a lamp post. Is there no justice?"

Foreman crosses his arms, stares down the table at him. "People will do anything for Christ. Not crippled drug addicts who won't admit they're wrong."

"Oh, ye of little faith. Do a tox screen, then figure out what drug he's withdrawing from."

"Her."

"Is it a vaginal problem? 'Cause if it is, that's way more interesting than--"

Cameron gets up, disgusted.

"Think she's gonna run my test?"

Chase snorts. "Nope."

"Then you do it," he says, turns to Foreman. "And you go figure out what she actually has."

"It's lupus."

House sighs. "It is so not lupus."

"How's your patient?"

"You know how I know there's no God? Ugly people."

"Delightful," she mutters, slaps his hand as he digs through the jar of lollypops. "How's your patient?

He shrugs. "Ugly."

"House."

"U-G-L- why do I have to spell this for you?"

She turns, follows him through the lobby. "How is your patient, medically?"

"Why do you keep asking?"

"Uh, because it's my job."

"No, your job is to bounce the funbags and sign paperwork. Not spy on me."

"Half of my job is spying on you, trying to make sure you don't do anything stupid." "I never do anything stupid." Pause. "Not without just cause, anyway." She moves suddenly in front of him and puts her hand on his shoulder, stopping him. "How's your patient?"

"Sick," he says glibly, and pushes past her.

"House--"

He turns, eyes narrowed and limps back to her, close enough that she has to arch her neck to meet his gaze. "The only reason you're asking is because someone else is asking. And the only reason someone else might be asking is to make sure you know. Which means someone's been spying on you."

"Or, like most decent human beings, I actually care about--"

"You've never met my patient, why would you care about him?"

"Her."

He tilts his head, scrutinizes her. "You really are spying on me."

She shifts slightly, a subtle, uncomfortable movement that he recognizes, interprets. He lowers his voice. "What's going on, Cuddy?"

There's a short pause, a split second hesitation on her part that tells him she's lying when she shakes her head, offers casually, "Nothing. Just wondering about your patient."

They go through the typical symptom-treat-symptom dance for a few days. House still thinks it's steroids and Cameron thinks it's anything but. "Chase is siding with Cameron because he doesn't want to lose out on nookie time and Foreman, the idiot, still thinks it's lupus," House laments, sighs heavily. "And I have to do clinic duty or else I won't get laid."

Wilson adopts a morose expression. "Your life is so hard."

"And, Cuddy's spying on me. She keeps bugging me about my patient."

Wilson frowns, speaks slowly and pretends to consider the subject. "Cuddy, caring about sick people? Weird."

"She doesn't care about my patient. She cares that she knows what's going on with my patient."

"The Dean of Medicine, wanting to be informed. I see where this is going."

"Pretty soon she's gonna start coming to the differentials, trying to convince me it's lupus."

"I thought it was lupus."

House shoots him a look; Wilson smirks, picks up a patient file.

"Ugh. Diarrhea. You?"

House picks up another file, flips it open. "Insomnia. Boring."

"But not gross." Wilson sighs, moves around House toward the exam room. "It's budget season," he says over his shoulder. "Everyone gets cranky."

House nods slowly, turns the information over in his head and files it for later.

When he opens the exam room door the patient scrambles backward, wide-eyed and near hysterics.

"It's the end of the world, you know. The end. The end. The end--"

"Yeah, you know, I think I pretty much got that when you said it was the end." House moves slowly from the doorway to the stool.

"Jesus won't come for us. Not yet. Not while the Devil's here."

He looks from the frantic man to the patient chart and back again. "Are you actually sick, or just psychotic?"

"Everybody's sick. Family. Friends. There are hurricanes in California. Took out San Francisco."

House rolls his eyes, tries not to groan. "Do you have any actual physical symptoms?"

"God's punishing us."

"Trying to get rid of the gays or the Chinese?"

"We have to stop him."

"I think there's actually more than one gay man in San Francisco--"

"The Imposter. He'll come first. He'll come and he'll bring plague and floods and tear us all into Hell."

House nods, snaps the file shut and stands. "Okay, just psycho."

"It could be you!" he says, pointing. "It could be her!"

House looks over at Cuddy, suddenly standing in the doorway, and shrugs. "Probably her. She's Jewish." He leans forward with a conspiratorial whisper: "She killed your savior!"

"House, what are you--"

He leans back, gestures to the frantic patient. "This is exactly why I don't like clinic duty."

She glares, ignores him. "Your patient had a seizure."

"Boring."

"Relevant. Foreman thinks it's lupus."

"The world is ending," the man says suddenly. They both stare at him blankly. House rolls his eyes, moves to the door. Cuddy steps back slightly, but he crowds her anyway.

"The world's not ending. When we get a real diagnosis of lupus, then you can start worrying. Call security, get this guy--"

But the man darts suddenly, pushing between them and knocking Cuddy into the door. House staggers back, pain shooting through his leg.

Cuddy straightens, presses her skirt. "You all right?" she asks casually, trying to pretend like she isn't watching him out of the corner of her eye, like she didn't almost reach out and grab his arm.

But House just frowns, glares in the direction the man fled.

"Now that was just uncalled for," he mutters, grabs her arm as she tries to leave.

"But since you're here, we need to talk."

"What's wrong?"

"Why do you assume something's wrong when--"

She leans slightly closer, lowers her voice. "You want to talk. That can't possibly bode well."

"Actually it does." He pauses, waits until they're almost in the middle of the clinic, then raises his voice. "We need to have more sex."

Cuddy stops abruptly, looks awkwardly between House and the nursing staff and tries to grabs his arm, move him off to the side, only to be interrupted by a nurse with a clipboard.

"You're irritable," he says. "Orgasms cure irritability."

She glares, takes the chart from the nurse and looks it over. "So would locking you in a closet for a month."

"Bondage? I can swing that."

The nurse shifts, gratefully accepting the clipboard back and hurrying away.

"Doubtful."

"Funny," he mutters, starts to walk away. She turns her attention back to the nurses, a file in front of her and House stops, moves quietly so that he's directly behind her.

"Boo," he says. She jumps, turns sharply and almost elbows him in the ribs.

"Irritable, jumpy, and violent. What's got your thong in a pinch?"

She glares, pushes past him. "You, at the moment."

He shrugs, follows. "Well, I live to serve. Cuddy--" He stops suddenly, and when she looks back he's doubled over, his hand gripping his leg and his body weight entirely to one side.

She crosses the space between them quickly, holds his arm and tries to support some of his weight. His face is pale and his other leg is shaking violently. He leans on her just long enough to make it to the nurse's station, then grabs the counter to hold himself upright.

"Can you make it to my office?" she asks after a few minutes, keeping her voice low. He nods, grits his teeth and straightens. She lets go, but stays less than two feet behind him until he drops onto her couch.

"How bad?" she asks, kneeling in front of him.

"Seven," he mutters. She places her hands against the scar, feeling the rigid muscles through his jeans. Her touch is barely there but it's enough to make him gasp, lurch forward. "Eight!"

"Sorry," she murmurs, lightens her touch even more. "What did you do?"

"I stepped on it," he mutters, hissing as she moves her fingers.

"Idiot."

House fumbles with the lid on his Vicodin. "Oh, stop, your sympathy is just too much."

"Stop moving."

"It hurts."

"All the more reason for you to hold still. The muscle cramped," she says, feeling her way around a small, tight ball of nerves.

House snorts. "What muscle?"

"Have you been sitting too much?"

"Too much for a normal person or too much for a cripple?"

"You're not being very helpful."

"Neither are you. If you wanna move your hands higher, though, that might--"

"Dr. Cuddy." She looks up sharply but her hands don't falter; House rolls his neck over the back of the couch.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I take your time slot? I didn't realize the Dean serviced people on an hourly schedule--"

Cuddy presses a finger unnecessarily hard into the muscle. "What do you need, Dr. Schultz?"

"I need to speak with you about my--"

She looks up at him briefly. "Can it wait?"

His voice hardens. "It's very urgent, Dr. Cuddy."

"So's pain. You should understand that--late night bonding sessions with the mistress--"

"Shut up," she hisses, "or I'll take your other thigh."

"Butcher," he mutters.

"Whiner."

He clears his throat. "Dr. Cuddy."

"I will be with you in a moment, Dr. Schultz."

He starts to protest but thinks better of it, turns and lets himself out of her office.

"Do you have to be such an ass?"

"Is that why you're tailing me?"

"What?"

"Schultz. He's been pressuring you about something."

She shrugs, moves to a different part of his leg. "It's nothing. He's got a grant up for review and he wants me to go over it with him to make sure it's approved."

"A grant he probably wouldn't need if the diagnostics department wasn't a black hole."

She smirks slightly, looks up at him. "So you do read the annual reviews."

"I skim."

"Then you must have missed the section that notes Princeton Plainsboro's diagnostics department is top in the nation."

"And considering how many hospitals in this country have diagnostics departments--"

"Makes it all the better." She sighs, leans back on her heels and drops her arms to her sides. "And I'm not going to cut it because Schultz has a stick up his ass."

"Excellent," he says. "Now stop spying on me."

"Stop limping," she counters. He smirks, watches her stand, straighten her skirt.

"You good?"

He nods, rattles his pills. "Man's best friend."

Cuddy rolls her eyes, moves around the couch to her desk and pretends to be occupied, giving him time to stand up, make sure his leg will support him. "And I employ you why?"

"Top in the nation," he gloats, moving toward the door.

Cuddy sighs dramatically. "God hates me."

Wilson's sitting in his office when House comes in, crosses the room, and lies down on the couch without a word. Wilson waits, frowns, then asks, "Yes, I understand, but how does that make you feel?"

"My patient has lupus."

Wilson nods, turns back to his paperwork. "And this warrants a psych session?"

"It's never lupus."

"Laws of statistics, House. One of these days..." House rolls his eyes and glowers. Wilson frowns. "You're seriously upset with this diagnosis?"

"It's boring."

"Well, it's not the plague, but..." Wilson trails off, studies him. "The plague," he says slowly. "Plane crashes. Bizarre weather patterns. And now...lupus." House tilts his neck to glare at him, but Wilson keeps playing along. "I can see how you'd be disturbed."

"I'm not disturbed, I'm annoyed."

"Because you were wrong."

"Because--"

Wilson raises his eyebrows. "Because..."

House hauls himself off the couch. "You're a crappy shrink," he grouses, slams the door on the way out.

Wilson blinks. "Okedoke then."

Part Seven: Catastrophe and the Cure

It's completely dark when she opens her eyes, and it takes her a moment to register the frantic pounding at her door. She reaches over to turn on the light and finds it's out; the streetlight that normally filters through her curtains is out too, and her house is deathly silent.

"Dr. Cuddy!" The voice is loud, muffled, and without waiting for her eyes to adjust she fumbles for the robe at the foot of her bed, hurries blindly down the hall and yanks open the door.

"What the hell is--Dr. Craver? What are you--"

He's breathing heavily, frantically, his eyes wide. "The power's out. All over Princeton."

"The generator--"

"Isn't working."

There's a brief pause, wherein the darkness behind him starts to register. The silence. No heat. No electricity. No light. No ventilators. No elevators. No computers.

"Get everyone in. Every doctor, every nurse, every intern, every lab tech. Tell them to bring ice, blankets, flashlights, batteries, anything they can think of, quickly, and safely, we need doctors not patients!"

Even as she's speaking he's nodding, hurrying down the walk and to his car. There are a few neighbors on their porches, staring up at the black sky, rich with stars.

She's out the door in three minutes.

There are ten people on her heels before she makes it to the lobby, twenty by the time she's there, more showing up and disappearing as they're given jobs.

"Generator's still down and cell phones aren't working, neither are radios," Brenda informs her tightly. "And we've got no internet access."

"The backup generator?"

"Also down."

"The E.R."

"Lit by laptops and iPods." "Pharmacy refrigerators are offline," someone says. She doesn't care who.

She stops at the nurses' counter, turns to the intern at her left. "I want you to round up all patients' family members, divide them into groups and tell them we need blankets, batteries, flashlights, non-perishable food items, ice, coolers and anything else they can think of that might come in handy." He nods, scurries away as she moves on to the next person, and the next.

"You, contact the chief of police and the fire department, see if they can help. Dr. Craver is getting everyone in, in the meantime I want extra bodies in the E.R and with critical patients, especially those on ventilators."

She picks out two lab-techs and an intern. "You three, you're in charge of the pharmacy. I want you to move all the medicine in refrigerators into coolers and iceboxes, it's your job to make sure the medication stays at controlled temperatures." They disappear and she turns to the next person. "Find me the six strongest men on staff. They're in charge of making sure patients that can't move get to where they need to be."

"What about patients on respirators?" one of the nurses asks.

"Use oxygen masks."

"And when we run out?"

She hesitates, turns to the intern at her left and throws him a set of keys. "Basement, fifth door on your left, there should be some extra supplies there, go."

She runs through the remaining people, handing out jobs and warnings. She's about to head upstairs when she sees House, moving swiftly through the lobby. Their gaze meets over the sea of frantic people and even in the semi-dark he can see her fear, buried beneath the calm. He nods once; she nods back, takes his strength and reassurance and runs with it.

They don't see each other for days.

They're running short on medicine, on supplies, on clean sheets and dressing gowns.

She's been in constant contact with the Dean of Princeton General by way of a student in her first-year seminar, trying to keep the solidarity strong even as they compete for supplies.

On the fourth day the generator kicks on, and everyone breathes a little easier, but it's another three days before she gets a signal on her cell phone, before the radios and televisions and any contact with the world outside returns.

Cuddy is instantly on the phone, day after day, calling suppliers and donors and anyone and everyone she can think of, demanding answers.

"I don't think she's slept in a week," Wilson says, desperately trying to keep his eyes open.

"No one has."

Wilson nods, scrubs his eyes and looks over at House. He doesn't want to know how many times he's tripped over something in the dark, had to take the stairs, been unable to help because he can't stand for too long, can't run.

He's about to say something, anything to break the awkward silence when the lights jump suddenly, and the whole room beings to hum. Wilson blinks, sits up slowly and moves to the door. House stays on the couch, looks past him into the hallway where everyone is chatting excitedly, flicking light switches and hurrying to get patients treated and families contacted.

Wilson turns, suddenly awake, and grabs his lab coat. He gives House a mildly sympathetic look. "I have to--"

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, sinking deeper into the cushions, relief evident in his frame. "Cancer before cripples."

Wilson can't help but smile.

It's another four days before things are running smoothly again. Gradually she relaxes the work force, sending more and more people home to rest, recover. She doesn't trust herself to leave, not until the last of the supplies are in and the generators have been examined and replaced; not until every patient is back in the right room on the right floor with the right equipment and not until Wilson touches her arm gently, smiling down at her.

"It's past midnight," he says. "Go home."

She sighs, nods, runs a hand through her hair. "How are your patients?"

"They're fine, Cuddy. Sleeping. Like you should be."

"Apparently the entire eastern seaboard has been without power. Here alone the death toll was over a hundred."

"We did all right."

She looks up at him and despite her exhaustion he can see the spark of anger in her eyes. "Wilson--"

"You know what I meant," he murmurs. She relaxes, looks away.

"I know. It's just...There were spots out all over Asia, all over Europe and Australia. Just...random spots. It doesn't make any sense."

He nods, but can't quite think of anything to say. She understands, squeezes his arm and rises, pulls her jacket on.

"House go home?"

Wilson hesitates, then frowns. She smiles at him. "I'll check his office."

He nods, moves toward the door.

"You did good, Wilson. Thank you."

He smiles back. "Good night, Cuddy."

"Good night."

She gathers her things over her arm, locks her office and takes the elevator, never so grateful for the soft whir, the scrape of the doors sliding open.

The light's still on in his office but the blinds are closed. His fellows are gone.

She frowns, pushes the door open and stands still for a moment. The room is empty.

She sighs, turns off the lights and leaves, makes it halfway down the hall and slows, stops. When she enters for the second time she doesn't stop in the doorway, but turns the light back on and moves around his desk.

"House," she breathes, drops to his side. He's leaning against the wall, eyes closed, breathing shallow, his leg tucked at an awkward angle. She checks his pulse, his breathing, grabs his hand and touches his forehead and his shoulder and shakes him slightly. His eyes open slowly and he murmurs something; his mouth is dry.

"Cuddy," he manages. He can barely think straight.

"What happened?"

She runs her hands over his ribs, his good leg. She checks his pulse again.

"Fell."

He shudders, the movement makes him squeeze his eyes shut and he turns his head away.

She stands up, rummaging across his desk and through his drawers. "Where's your Vicodin?"

"Can't reach...pocket. Ran out..." he gasps and she drops the empty bottle she'd found, kneels at his side, hands on his leg so soft. He's gripping his bad leg; white knuckles and closed eyes and,

"Cuddy. Need..."

"I'll be right back."

He doesn't hear her come back, doesn't feel her next to him.

He knows she's talking, doesn't know about what or why and then all of sudden her arm's looped around his back and she's dragging him to his feet. He cries out, stumbles; she holds him upright, tilts sidewise so that he's leaning completely on her, his knees buckling.

"Cuddy," he gasps. "I can't...I can't..."

"You can't stay like that, House," he thinks he hears her say. But it's hot and cold and he can't feel his limbs, his face.

He doesn't feel the soft chair, her hand on his leg, the needle go in, the damp cloth against his forehead.

"House?" Her voice is still far away, but clearer. The pain fades slowly, too slow, but he blinks, forces his eyes open. She's sitting on the floor next to him, not touching him but barely, fingers curled around her knees. He turns his head, stares at her for a long moment, then looks her up and down slowly, tries to smirk.

"Nice shirt," he mumbles. She half-laughs, breathless and nervous and she swallows tightly, looks at his leg, back up at him.

"Thanks," she whispers, clears her throat.

He leans back, eyes closed, and she listens carefully as his breathing evens out. She keeps her hand on his wrist, two fingers on his pulse, counts in her head.

"Well?" he questions, still short of breath. His voice is slightly sarcastic, slightly teasing. She rolls her eyes.

"Better."

She stands, disappears, comes back moments later with a glass of water and forces him to drink. He's too tired to argue.

She takes the cup back when he's done, sits on the floor, watches him.

"We can talk about this later," she says softly.

"Goody," he mutters, but his shoulders relax just slightly; he doesn't have the energy to fight and neither does she. He watches her closely for a moment before letting his eyes drift shut. "You okay?" he murmurs.

She swallows tightly. "I'll be fine."

"Cuddy."

It's only her name and he can barely hear it over his labored breathing, but it's enough and she falls forward, her head on his chest and fingers curled into his shirt. There's a light sheen of sweat across his forehead and she knows he's still in pain and it means all that much more when she feels his hand come to rest on top of her head.

"How bad?" she asks quietly.

He brushes her off. "I'm fine."

"House. How bad?"

He swallows hard, turns his head into the cushion.

"It's bad."

Her voice falls to a whisper. "Do you want me to--"

"No." He takes a deep, shaky breath, threads his fingers through her hair.

They're sitting on the couch, pretending to watch the news. The sound is low and they're both distracted, both fully aware of the pain in his thigh and the tension in the air. He's waiting for her to ask, she's waiting for some sign that she can, that he'll tell her the truth when she does.

He ignores her, straightens his spine, and turns the volume on the TV up.

A week goes by before she finally gives up finding the right moment, finding an acceptable time and frame of mind. He can see it on her face the moment she walks in the door, rolls his eyes as she stands in the middle of his office, takes a deep breath.

"I know you don't want to hear this, but--"

"Cuddy."

"No, listen to me. In Germany--" "Cuddy--"

"In Germany, they've had a lot of success with--"

"I've heard."

She moves around the desk, arms at her sides, almost imploring. "Then why won't you consider--"

"Look around you, Cuddy! We've got plagues, fires, failing technology--"

"All of which have nothing to do with your leg. You're still here, House. Why do you insist on acting like you've lost?" She sighs, looks away. She doesn't want him to see how much it hurts her. "You are ruthless when it comes to everything, House. When you want to know something, you don't give up, be it figuring out what's wrong with your patients, or whether or not I've been on a date--"

"I know for a fact you haven't been on a date in--"

"Why is that more important than your leg? Than your health?"

But what she wants to ask is Why do you fight for everyone but yourself?

"I'm doing what I can, Cuddy." She scoffs, folds her arms and leans back against the desk, raises her eyebrows at him. "Having Chase write you extra scripts? That hardly seems--"

"He told you." His tone is harsh and flat; he looks betrayed. Cuddy sighs, shakes her head.

"He's the logical choice."

House frowns. "He didn't tell you." "I'm not an idiot. Wilson won't believe you, Cameron will tell Wilson, Foreman wouldn't compromise himself--"

"You believe me."

She drops her arms, exasperated. "Chase believes you."

"Because you told him to." "I can't write scripts for you. Not with...I'm sorry." She hesitates, then meets his gaze and offers a small shrug. "I told him that if you came to him, not to ask any questions."

He nods slowly, says nothing, stares absently across the room. She wants to ask if he's okay, if she was wrong, if she screwed up, if she made things worse. She wants to ask if it means anything, that she's trying.

Instead she lowers her eyes, straightens. She's at the door when he finally speaks, an honest question looking for an honest answer.

"You told Chase?"

"Yeah."

There's a pause; then, "Wilson's gonna have a fit," he says, with the barest hint of gratitude.

She rolls her eyes, gives him an amused smirk. "No kidding."

Part Eight: Time Stops

Her first clue is the hush that comes over the boardroom when she enters. She pauses, scans the members. Several of them avert their gaze, a few smile uneasily and Wilson looks angry, but not at her.

She takes her seat, convenes the meeting. It goes relatively smoothly, with no more outbursts than usual, but the tension's thick and there's an air of hesitation, and Wilson and Dr. Schultz keep exchanging bitter looks.

An hour later she lets them go, spends more time than necessary packing up, discreetly watching the exchange between several members in the hallway. Wilson hangs back, touches her arm on his way out the door. He doesn't say anything but she knows that look, that warning and she sighs, shakes her head. She's just about the leave when Schultz comes back into the room.

"Dr. Cuddy. I need to speak with you a moment." She raises her eyebrows. He hesitates. "I'm afraid we have a problem with Dr. House."

She gives him an impatient look. "When don't we have a problem with Dr. House?"

"This is bigger." She frowns, now intrigued and worried, watching as he pulls a plastic bag out of his lab coat pocket. She holds out her hand, and he gives her the bag, an empty vial of Demerol inside. "This was found in his office. The logs were checked, and it wasn't recorded. He's stealing medicine."

She shakes her head, hands it back to him. "He's not stealing meds. I gave it to him."

His shock is poorly hidden. "Excuse me?"

"He fell, he was in pain."

"The Vicodin--"

"Wasn't cutting it. It's not a habitual thing. It was an emergency and I forgot to log it. It was my mistake."

"How do you know that it isn't habitual? He's probably using you to get his fix--"

"He's not addicted to anything but the Vicodin. He's not abusing Demerol."

Schultz glares. "How can you be sure? He lies to everyone. Especially to you."

Cuddy sighs, allowing her agitation to show. "Dr. House is many things, but an idiot is not one of them. I'm his doctor."

"You're also his boss," he counters, matching her tone.

She gives him a Yes? And? look, then sighs. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to make sure Dr. House's behavior isn't going to cost this hospital another hundred million dollars."

Her back tenses, eyes narrow and her voice hardens. "That was out of line."

"You cover his ass, Dr. Cuddy. You cover his ass to the point that it costs this hospital--"

"My hospital," she interrupts him. "My decisions. Dr. House saves lives, that's the only bottom line there ever has been and there ever will be. If you think his ability to do his job is being compromised, then we can talk, but until that point Dr. House's medical condition and treatment is entirely none of your business."

He nods, but doesn't back down. "Maybe not, but I have reason to believe extenuating circumstances are influencing yours and his decisions on hospital matters--"

"Extenuating circumstances such as..."

"You really should take separate cars, Dr. Cuddy."

Her voice drops suddenly. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Dr. Schultz, but it's very difficult to operate a motor vehicle when one of your legs isn't working."

He narrows his eyes. "So you're not involved."

"Involved in what way?" she asks calmly, more of a demand than a question.

"Sexually."

"Dr. Schultz--" she warns.

"You cannot be his doctor and his boss and be in a...relationship with him at the same time," he says, getting slightly flustered.

She raises her head. "Why not? Because now you suddenly know about it?"

He opens his mouth to argue but there's nothing there, and she starts speaking again before he can find a retort.

"If I'm sleeping with Dr. House, which is something I don't feel the need to confirm or deny to you, can you tell me when it started? When did my judgment change? When did our professional relationship alter?"

She gives him a moment to answer but he says nothing. She nods. "It hasn't. So until you have some evidence that our alleged 'sexual' relationship is hindering our professional relationship, I strongly suggest you drop it." She sighs, softens her voice. "This isn't the time for this, Larry. We've got much bigger issues to contend with, and one, albeit pain-in-the-ass, doctor, is at the bottom of the list. Okay?"

He hesitates, then nods, drops his defensive. "Okay."

She nods, thanks him, asks if there's anything else she can help him with. He shakes his head, thanks her as well, then disappears. She sighs heavily, closes her eyes and tries to steady her breathing before picking up her bag and turning off the lights.

She runs into House just outside her office.

"So I hear the jury's out."

"On what?"

"On whether you can effectively run this hospital and screw around with me."

She scoffs, shakes her head, pushes past him into her office. "Dr. Schultz had an opinion or two," she mutters, gathering a few items off her desk and powering down her computer.

He nods. "Probably valid."

"You're questioning my ability to do my job?"

"Nope. Your job performance hasn't changed at all in the past ten years."

"Meaning?"

"They are right, you know. You don't think rationally when it comes to me."

"I don't--"

"You forgot to chart the Demerol?"

"How did you know what I said--"

"If you didn't chart it, that means you wanted to hide it. And if you wanted to hide it, that means you know there's something wrong with it."

"It's not the drugs people are worried about," she says, then winces. He raises his eyebrows, but she waves him off. "It doesn't matter."

"It does if it costs you your job."

"What are you saying?"

He shrugs, leans back against the doorframe. "I'm saying there's a lot going on right now. Maybe it's not the best time for the funbags to take on the white, patriarchal gonads."

"Are you trying to let me out of this?"

He shrugs. "It's your job on the line."

There's a pause, a sharp, angry silence before she grabs her briefcase and moves directly in front of him, eyes narrow and voice firm. "You've never done anything nice for me before, don't you dare start now. You want out of this, find another way."

She goes home angry and falls asleep restless and wakes up in the middle of the night to the shrill ring of her cell phone.

Her mother's in hysterics and her father's voice is shaking and it's finally her brother that takes the phone and says, "It's Patrick, Lise. They bombed the Embassy."

She spends the next four hours in front of the television, phone tucked against shoulder as she listens to everything they don't know, about when and why and how and the newscaster just keeps repeating the same information every ten minutes.

Light streams into the living room and she tells her mother she has to go, she'll have her cell phone, to call if they hear anything. She showers and changes and goes to work and stares at the words on memos and charts and doesn't understand why she can't read them.

She makes it four hours before giving up, going home. House finds her later that night, huddled into the corner of the sofa with the TV on and her cell phone clutched in her hand.

"North Korea declared war on the U.S and China. French and British troops just stormed Kabul, Israel made a preemptive strike against Lebanon and Russia just reported its first case of an 'unknown, plague-like' virus. Every other commercial has been replaced by duck-and-cover ads."

She pauses. He watches her watching the screen and waits.

"My brother's in a war zone."

House nods, looks from her to the television and back again. Her skin is pale blue in the light and the circles under her eyes are dark and deep; she's still wearing her clothes from work and her make-up is smudged.

"You look like a war zone," he snaps, but it's too flat and too belated. The reporter on TV announces increased fighting in Chad.

"C'mon," he mutters, pokes her with the end of his cane. She looks up blankly. "Bed's bigger. More room for you, me, and Little Greg."

She attempts a smile, shakes her head. "I'd rather stay out here."

"But Little Greg will be lonely." He sighs as she turns back to the TV. Within minutes her eyes are closed, her breathing steady. House rolls his eyes. "Think you're going to absorb the headlines by proximity to the television?" She blinks, tries to glare at him. He shrugs. "Doesn't do you any good if you're asleep, Cuddy."

"I wasn't--"

"Either go to bed, or do something productive," he snaps, grabs the remote and switches the TV off. "Don't watch this crap."

They stare each other down for a long moment; when she speaks her voice is low and calm, like she isn't afraid. Like she isn't exhausted. Like it really is as simple as it sounds.

"He's my brother."

She holds out her hand for the remote.

He pauses, then rolls his eyes, drops the remote in her hand and moves to the other side of the couch, sitting down next to her and propping his leg up on the coffee table.

"These duck-and-cover ads better be excellent."

The televisions in the clinic lobby are always on news stations. She watches them carefully, has eyes and ears in everything that happens--every shot fired, every ground advance. By the end of the week the whole world's involved but no one really knows why or how.

"It's World War Three everywhere you look," one of her patients said, and she couldn't find the words to disagree with him.

She's distracted, she knows, and she hates it. Hates being asked if she's all right. Hates not having an answer.

Weeks go by, and she feels like the entire world is holding its breath.

She's standing at the nurses' station in the clinic, looking over a patient's chart, when someone screams, and several people come stumbling down the stairs.

In an instant, five people are calling her name, security's running and someone tries to hold her back but she's up the stairs and down the hall and the nurses are on the floor, curled against the desks and walls, her security personnel have their guns drawn and everybody's looking at the man with a gun and wild eyes and a baby in his arms.

He's yelling something, waving the weapon and the baby and she's felt her heart stop before but not like this. She's so dimly aware of everything else.

The parents are off to the side and the wife is screaming. Her husband is pressing her mouth against his shoulder to muffle the sound and it's taking two security agents to hold them back.

Wilson's somewhere. She saw him. Ran past him, maybe.

The baby is wailing.

Security is threatening to shoot and the man is still yelling, still pointing the gun, still holding the baby.

It's the man from the clinic. Going on and on about the end of the world. She recognizes him, but barely.

The baby can't breathe, is all she can think. He's holding her wrong. He's holding her wrong.

She doesn't know how she gets so close but suddenly she's almost in front of security and speaking in low tones. The man yells something, waves the gun. The mother whimpers in the background. She continues to reason with him, catches the eye of a security agent over his shoulder.

She says no her head of security nods yes and it would be so simple but there's a baby, crying crying and he's yelling shut up shut up! And there are five agents and one of him and she's saying Don't shoot, don't shoot! like a mantra, or a prayer.

"Please," she says softly, arms out.

"This baby will kill us all."

She shakes her head. "No he won't--"

"'And when they have finished their testimony the beast that ascends from the bottomless pit will make war upon them--'"

"Sir," an agent says, "I need you to give us the child."

"'--and conquer them and kill them and their dead bodies will lie in the street of the great city--'" "Dr. Cuddy, step back."

"Don't shoot."

"Dr. Cuddy!"

"Don't shoot!"

"'Behold! a great red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven diadems upon his heads. His tail swept down a third of the stars of heaven--'"

The mother screams again and lunges forward; someone holds her back.

"'--cast them to earth! And the dragon stood before the woman who was about to give birth--'"

"Sir, let go of the child or I will be forced to take action."

"Don't shoot him!"

"Dr. Cuddy--"

And suddenly he's standing next to the railing with the baby over the edge and there's too much screaming and too much crying and God told him it was this child in this hospital and he must be stopped and he must be killed or it's the end of the world and the end of man and the security guard nods once and then shoots.

It's quiet.

For one whole second, no one moves. No one thinks. The man falls forward and the baby falls downward and security grabs the man and everyone else is staring over the railing at the baby in the arms of one of seven guards standing in the lobby.

They give the baby to a nurse who rushes him away and the parents run after them and the nurses are pale and Wilson's hand is on her arm, the sound of his voice echoing in her ear.

"Cuddy. Are you all right?"

She inhales deeply, nods. "I'll be fine. It's all--"

"Dr. Cuddy!"

She turns in time to see the man leap up, all unrestrained rage and fear and she sees the gun, knows it's pointed at her but isn't quite sure why. He's screaming and then there's a dull popping sound and she feels her shoulder hit something hard. There's a weight on top of her and it takes her a moment to realize it's a person.

Wilson scrambles up quickly, helps her to her feet. "Are you all right?"

"Wilson, your arm."

He looks down, looks surprised at all that blood on his white coat. He covers it with his hand. "It's fine. It's probably just a flesh wound--"

"Somebody get a gurney!"

Wilson half-laughs. "Cuddy, I'm fine, I don't need a...oh." He sways; she grabs him. "Okay, then."

"Gurney, now!"

And then there's a gurney Wilson's whisked away. "Somebody get House!"

There're people everywhere and security and traumatized interns and nurses and the police, suddenly standing in front of her with notepads.

She answers their questions. Yes, she'd seen him before, once, in the clinic, no he's not a patient, yes someone was hurt, no no one was killed, yes, the baby should be fine, yes, she's sure it's him, no, he doesn't work there, no, she doesn't know him, no, he wasn't after her, yes, this is the first time this has happened, yes no yes no and her head is pounding and her throat's dry and finally they look at each other and nod.

"We'll be in touch."

She says thank you like she's grateful and spends a long time talking to nurses, to doctors, helping facilitate interviews with the police and she checks repeatedly on Wilson and on the baby and on the man who's sedated in the ICU with a gunshot wound. He's chained to the bed.

"It was stupid," she says angrily, pacing the length of her office. "It was stupid and irresponsible and you are damned lucky that baby doesn't have brain damage--you can't drop a baby from twenty feet and expect everything to--and a system of head nods? That's how you executed this whole--"

She stops abruptly and takes a deep breath. Her head of security--a tall man with broad shoulders and thinning hair--waits a moment, then allows a small smile. "Are you done congratulating me, ma'am?"

"Shut up," she mutters, but returns the smile briefly. "I'm not lying. It was stupid. And it was dangerous, and it wasn't a decision I was willing to make." She pauses, sighs softly. "Which is why you carry a gun and I fill out the paperwork." She touches his shoulder. "Thank you."

He nods. "Any time, ma'am."

Cuddy groans. "I really hope not."

She talks with other security agents and again with the police and with the parents of the baby and with the nurse who ran the tests to make sure she was fine. She checks on Wilson again; finds House sitting next to his bed, rolling his eyes.

"How is he?" she asks softly.

House smirks. "He's high on morphine." His voice is low and gruff and cracked and Cuddy swallows because he's not supposed to be scared. "Just gave me a one-man rendition of The Village People."

She smiles but barely. House stares, looks away.

"You okay?"

She nods but he doesn't see it. The silence is strained. House stands up slowly, leaning heavily on the cane. She makes no move to help him, but he knows she wants to. It's almost comforting, in an annoying sort of way.

"I'm going home," he says. "You should too."

She shakes her head. "I can't."

He nods, looks from Wilson to her and back again.

"He saved my life."

"He likes to be needed."

She says nothing, stares past him at the bed.

"He's so pale."

"He'll be fine."

She takes a shaky breath, then steadies herself. She looks up at him, touches his arm. "Go home. Get some rest." She doesn't add, this can't have been easy for you.

House nods, moves past her. He stops just before the door. "Cuddy."

She turns. He throws something small and cold across the room at her; she catches it, looks confused.

"Come home when you're done."

He leaves, and she smiles down at the key in her hand.

At one in the morning he hears the door open, looks up from the piano. She drops her bag and her coat on the floor, toes off her shoes. Even in the dim lighting he can tell, he can see her exhaustion in the way she moves, the rhythm of her breathing.

She crosses the room and sits down at the same time he moves over.

"Wilson's going to be fine," she murmurs, watching his hands play over the keys. "I'm keeping him overnight for observation."

"Just because you're paranoid," he says, teasing with a hint of truth.

"Better safe than sorry," she replies, and for once he nods.

"How's the guy?"

She blinks. "You care?"

"Nope."

She nods, looks away. "He'll be fine. He'll be admitted, of course. Not in my hospital. Somewhere else. It wasn't...It's just...I."

He stops playing, looks at her. There's a brief moment where their eyes meet and she can see his pain, knows he took more pills and drank more alcohol and waited up for her regardless; he can see her sadness and fear and exhaustion before she falls into his shoulder, her head turned awkwardly into his neck. Her body trembles, every muscle and bone desperate for rest and House reaches under her arm, presses his palm into the middle of her back to hold her up.

With his other hand he starts to play again, gentle high notes until she's stopped shaking and her breathing's evened out.

"C'mon," he murmurs, nudges her gently. He starts to stand, exhales sharply and sits back down, hand clutching his thigh. His face contorts into a scowl but she ignores him, stands and loops her arm around his back.

"Cuddy," he warns, but she shakes her head.

"Lean on me."

"Just get me my Vicodin."

"No. Lean on me."

"Cuddy," he protests, frustrated anger seeping in.

She helps him up, down the hall and into the bedroom. She disappears for a moment, giving him time to undress and comes back with his pills and a glass of water.

"Thanks, mom," he mutters and she smiles, gestures for him to scoot over.

She sits on the edge of the bed, gently massaging his good leg, working her way from his foot to his thigh. He makes no move to stop her and that's how she knows how bad it is, how much of his guard he's willing to sacrifice, just for a little relief.

She shifts and moves to his other leg. When she passes his knee he tenses; she lightens her touch. "Try to relax," she murmurs, kneads the muscles slowly and carefully until she feels the light spasms stop, his breathing deepen. She stops when he grabs her hand, pulls her toward him. She braces herself with her arms on either side of his chest, kisses him. Their noses bump and she laughs softly, climbs off him. She folds her clothes over a chair and steals one of his shirts before climbing into bed, head tucked into his neck and her hand over his chest.

"Thank you," he murmurs. She makes a soft sound in the back of her throat, plants a kiss just below his collarbone.

"Okay. We've cuddled. Can I ravish you now?"

She blinks, strains her eyes against the morning light and the image of his face looming over her. She's on her back somehow and he's resting all his weight on her, only partially propped up on his elbows.

"Wh-what?"

House rolls his eyes. "Jeez, you're slow in the morning." He points his finger. "You--naked, me--horny. Comprende?" He grinds his hips against hers, just to get the point across.

"I'm not naked."

"Well, let's do something about that," he says, almost cheerfully, and proceeds to tug on the hem of her shirt. "House..."

He sighs dramatically, stops his motions and looks up at her. "Almost dying is a great excuse for sex. They do it in movies all the time. It's like a staple. You were too tired last night, so now I'm cashing in."

"I seem to remember a mutual exhaustion."

"Well, you were traumatized. Can't expect you to be at your best."

"House--"

He sighs heavily. "What could you possibly want to talk about? Wilson's fine, the kid's fine, the psycho guy's not fine. Also, I'm not letting you out of this bed until I get laid."

"Is that so?"

"Very so."

"Well, I guess that gives me a good excuse to sleep, then. Given how exhausted and traumatized I am," she murmurs, closing her eyes.

"Hey, that's not part of the--" But she laughs, cutting him off and he can feel the sound vibrating in her throat. He hasn't heard her laugh in so long that it catches him by surprise, even more so when she rolls suddenly, flips them so she's on top. Her chest tightens when he gasps, tries to hide the pain that streaks across his face.

"I'm--" she starts. He covers her mouth with his, focuses on skin and lips and the lack of oxygen, dulling the pain. He pulls back, breathless, and skims his hands along her ribcage, pulling the shirt up and over her head and tosses it aside.

"Ooh, I like this view," he smirks, says good morning to both her breasts. She rolls her eyes.

"People you have no manners for, but show you a pair of mammaries..."

"Hey," he protests, "they're just as deserving as the next protruding parts of the anatomy. Speaking of which..."

"House," she says firmly, pins his arms above his head and lowers her lips to his. "Shut. Up."

Part Nine: Snow and Lights

She's standing in the kitchen making breakfast, doesn't notice when he slips into the room, leans against the doorframe and watches her.

He doesn't really understand how they got to this point; how it's possible that she's in his apartment in his shirt and his sweatpants and how he doesn't care all that much that she has a toothbrush in his bathroom and his CD collection is slowly infiltrating hers. It bothers him, but not to the point of fear; not to the point of pulling back, pushing away. And he isn't sure whether it doesn't matter or if it matters too much, the way she looks up at him briefly and smiles.

She offers him coffee--better coffee than he can make--and disappears into the living room for a moment.

"House."

He turns, follows her gaze out the window.

"It's...snowing."

He frowns, moves closer. "It's blizzarding."

She gives him a look. "In July?"

He shrugs. "Stranger things have happened."

"Lately, yeah," she murmurs, and a silence, all too serious, coats the room. House shifts uncomfortably, taps his cane a few times on the ground and shrugs.

"Well, looks like I was right."

"About what?"

"Cuddling does get me out of clinic duty."

She shakes her head. "Oh, no--"

"There's no way you're driving in this. I'm certainly not driving in this, so I win anyway."

"I have to go in; the ER's going to be swamped and--"

"Then the 800 people you delegate stuff to will handle it."

She pushes off the wall toward the bedroom. "I have to be there."

"No," he insists, "you don't. Contrary to popular belief, most of your staff are capable of doing their jobs." He pauses, tilts his head. "Except the surgeons, but hopefully we won't need them."

She glares heatedly at him over her shoulder as she reaches for her clothes. She tries to push past him but he grabs her arm.

"Let me go."

"Get real, Cuddy. You're not gonna make it to your car without becoming a patient yourself. Or getting lost."

She tugs her arm out of his grasp. "I have to try--"

"You really think you're that important?"

She stops, back to him and closes her eyes. His words hurt deep, more because of their truth than anything else.

"I can't just do nothing," she says angrily, turning. "I'm not you."

He shrugs, moves closer until he's staring her down. "Well, you're no help to anyone if you're dead, so call whoever you need to and delegate from afar. True, the twins won't be there to urge people to do your bidding, but hopefully self-preservation will be enough to compensate just this once."

"House," she says softly, one last protest. He shakes his head, kisses her. When he draws back she's staring at the floor and he rolls his eyes.

"You're going to be unbearable until this is over, aren't you?"

She looks up, smirks. "Probably."

House sighs dramatically, takes the clothes she's still holding and throws them on the bed before moving past her, calling over his shoulder,

"Thank God for hard liquor!"

The snowstorm hits all along the eastern seaboard and into the south. Illinois and Ohio wind up with hail the size of golf balls, and Washington state is on high alert; the Oregon coast was evacuated three days ago.

Cuddy makes all the necessary calls, keeps her cell phone in her pocket. She's remarkably calm, he thinks, but if he looks at her too closely he knows it isn't calm, just pure exhaustion. He ignores her for the most part, lets her call Wilson and call the hospital and call the hospital again; he pays extra attention to the conversation she has with her mother (still no word).

He drinks whisky and watches soaps and plays the piano; she works on her laptop for a while, calls a few patients.

Eventually she disappears and he hears the shower running. When he looks at the clock an hour later and realizes the stillness he sighs, stands carefully and makes his way down the hall. She's standing by the window, staring at nothing but blurred white.

"I'm not seeing a psychiatrist anymore," she says quietly. "Haven't been for about a month."

"I know."

"It wasn't working."

"I know."

He stays in the doorway, leaning against the wall. She doesn't look at him. "They're planning a memorial service. For everyone involved in a flight crash. Families of victims and people who experienced--" She halts, pauses. "They want me to speak." "Guest of honor," he says. "Cool."

She shakes her head. "I don't have anything to say."

He shrugs. "You could tell knock-knock jokes."

She looks over her shoulder, gives him a mildly amused smirk. "Somehow I don't think that's quite what they have in mind." She sighs, turns back to the window. "What do you tell someone who's lost their son? Or their parent?"

"Brother, sister, aunt, uncle. It's all very tragic, Cuddy. It's the way life goes."

"No," she murmurs. "No it isn't. Not like this."

And he sighs, nods, watches her.

She shakes her head. "I don't have anything to say."

It takes another twelve hours for the storm to stop, and almost another full day after that to clear some of the major roads. She leaves as soon as it's remotely safe, and he follows a few days later. The number of accidents was minimal--no one could leave their homes--but they have lines and lines of outpatients needing medication and check-ups and treatment. It takes weeks for everything to return to a semblance of normal and even then, everyone's on edge, just waiting for the next thing.

He's hanging up the phone when she enters his office. He looks up, and she frowns at his blank expression, his empty eyes.

"House?" Her voice is low, as if afraid to break whatever it is that stands between them.

He stares at her, through her for a moment, and she holds her breath. Then he sighs, sits heavily and rubs a hand over his face.

"What do you need?"

She moves forward and hands him a file, leans lightly against the desk. They talk differential briefly; she insists, he rolls his eyes. It's the typical dance that makes her smile, briefly.

"It's not pneumonia," she says, cutting him off. He gives her a look, examines the file, tilts his head. She knows she has him.

"So it's business as usual, then?" he asks without looking up.

She shrugs. "People are still sick."

"And the fact that we're probably all going to die anyway in a few months..."

"A few months is a few months. You can accomplish a lot in that time frame."

He nods wordlessly, stands and moves toward the lounge where Cameron is reading a journal article and Chase is chewing his pencil over a crossword.

Cuddy moves simultaneously toward the door to the hallway, stops at the sound of his voice.

"My father died," he says, one hand on the door, staring at the floor.

Her eyes widen and she swallows the desire to ask if he's okay and presses her heels firmly into the floor to keep from walking to him.

"What happened?"

His shoulders drop in an attempted shrug. "Same thing that's happening to everyone."

"He got sick."

House keeps his eyes glued to where his hand rests on the door.

"My mother wants me home for the funeral."

She nods, watches as he pushes through the door to the lounge where his team has been waiting expectantly, then disappears down the hall.

They stop talking as soon as he enters. Cameron looks away and Chase looks down and Foreman sighs, straightens his shoulders.

House frowns, limps forward slowly. "Okay," he says. "Who died?"

"No one--" Cameron starts, sighs. "We need to--"

"We're going home," Foreman says.

House raises his eyebrows--"Right this minute?"--then shrugs. "So long as the coffee's made--"

"Soon," Chase says. "For good."

House tilts his head, spies three folders on the table.

"Those are our letters of resignation," Cameron says.

"Yeah," he mutters, moving forward to sit in the nearest chair. "I gathered that."

"We're still here for two weeks," Chase says. "So it's not like--"

"What?" he grouses. "You think I'll miss you?" Chase smirks and Foreman rolls his eyes. House pauses, bounces his cane on the ground. "You should go now."

Foreman frowns, suspicious. "Technically we have to give--"

"Who's gonna care? Cuddy? Our non-existent patient?"

"I thought Cuddy just gave you--"

"She has endocarditis." He tosses the folder at Cameron. "Check me."

She frowns, opens the folder and reads over it, hands to Chase who hands it to Foreman.

"It could be--"

"It's endocarditis. Go home."

"Are you sure you--"

"I'm not being self-sacrificing. I will be more than happy to get rid of all of you."

They hesitate, then Foreman drops the folder on the table. "Suit yourself," he says, pauses at the door. "You're an asshole," he says. "It was miserable working with you."

House nods. "You're welcome."

Foreman smirks, pushes his way out the door. Chase stands up next, and House immediately holds out his cane.

"Don't hug me."

Chase sighs, exasperated. "I'm not going to hug you."

House gives him a look. "I don't trust you."

Chase snorts. "You don't trust anyone," he says, and holds out his hand. House glares at it for a long moment, rolls his eyes.

"You wanna spit shake?"

Chase rolls his eyes, drops his arm and turns to Cameron. "I'll be downstairs."

She nods, rises slowly. She straightens the folders on the desk, clears off the whiteboard, rearranges the coffee pot.

House groans. "He could get infected with the plague by the time you get down there."

She looks up sharply, glowers, picks up the patient file and looks over it again.

"I'll get her started on antibiotics."

House nods, says nothing for a moment and Cameron picks up her things, moves toward the door. "Cameron." She stops, looks back, braced for whatever it is he's going to say. He hesitates, looks away. "Chase is going to ask you to go with him."

Cameron opens her mouth, but her retort doesn't fit what he's said. She frowns. "What makes you say--"

"Oh, please," he groans. "Even you aren't that stupid."

Cameron nods slowly, confused and still wary. "And?"

"You should go with him."

"Why?" she demands, eyes narrowed.

House shrugs. "He might stick around otherwise, and I don't want to deal with a lovesick puppy."

"Chase doesn't--"

"Oh, please."

Cameron rolls her eyes. "I'll take your pain into consideration."

She pauses, waits for the retort that never comes. She sighs. "Thank you," she says quietly. "For..."

House nods, meets her gaze. "You're welcome."

A week later he comes home and finds her in his bedroom, dressed in all black with her hair done up and her makeup smooth. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the TiVoed crash reports he hasn't deleted. She isn't crying but he can see everything in the way she sits, the way her hair falls forward, the pattern of lines on her face.

"...and caused the deaths of twelve people, including one six year old boy who--"

"You're gonna be late," he says. His voice sticks awkwardly in his throat.

"I know," she murmurs, doesn't take her eyes off the television.

"Not a good precedent for the guest of honor."

"I'm not the--"

"Why are you watching that?"

There's a pause.

"We're just amazed at the low number of fatalities," an interviewee says, "especially when considering the London flight..."

Cuddy looks away. "I don't know."

"You should--"

"Yeah."

Neither of them move. House stays in the doorway. She keeps her eyes fixed on the screen. He realizes then that there's something else. That it's more than just general guilt, more than fear and sadness. It's personal--everything with her is personal, he rationalizes--but the bones on her hands are so prominent, the lines of her frame so sharp and awkward and he doesn't understand how he missed it before; the small but strong ache of guilt she carries.

The television goes black and she stands, brushes her hair out of her face.

"I have to go."

"Cuddy."

"Don't," she says sharply, takes a shaky breath.

"You're not God, Cuddy."

"Neither are you."

"I don't pretend that I can save everyone."

"At least I try."

He grabs her arm as she tries to pass.

He wants to ask, but doesn't know how, other than to demand the answer, other than to poke and prod and press but he knows; she'll either fight back too hard or she'll break, and neither will accomplish anything. They're both too tired. His grip on her arm slackens.

She looks away. "I should--"

"Yeah."

When she slips past him, all he feels is the brush of fabric. The door closes softly in the front room. He sits down on the bed and turns the television on.

Part Ten: The Only Moment We Were Alone

"What're you doing here?"

He shrugs, pushes himself out of the chair. "How'd it go?"

"Fine," she says tiredly, pulls off her shawl, folds it carefully on top of her purse before moving into the kitchen; House follows. "Get a trophy?" he asks. She gives him a slightly confused look.

"No."

"Plaque? Ribbon? Check?"

"No."

"Bummer." He gestures to the stove. "I made tea."

"House--"

He reaches around her and pulls down a mug, hands it to her. "Family there?"

His actions contradict his words and it throws her off, makes her hesitate. "It was a memorial service, House. A lot of people came."

"People from your flight?"

"Yes, I--" she closes her eyes, shakes her head. "Why are you interrogating me?"

He shrugs. "Just curious." He waits a moment, gives her shoulders time to relax, her guard to fall. "So, see anyone you saved?"

She glares at him. "You think that's why I went? For gratitude?"

"Why else would you go?"

"To pay my respects."

"Why? You don't owe these people anything. You already saved most of them--"

"A few of them, and what does that have to do with--" she stops, shakes her head. She lets out a soft laugh, slightly bitter. "I'm not doing this. I'm going to bed."

"Sleep won't do anything for your guilt."

"Neither will you," she says, but it's more exhausted than cruel. "It's been a long day. It's late."

"People die every day, Cuddy. There's nothing more important about this batch than any other--"

"You weren't there!" she says suddenly, her voice shaking. "You didn't see--"

"I see death all the time, so do you, it's what we do. You knew these people for a few hours, max, and you're acting like you killed your best friend."

"Oh, so I'm supposed to be apathetic?"

"You're supposed to get over it."

"It's not an ER, House," she says, her voice cracking. "There aren't capable doctors running around keeping things in check. There's water so high you can't breathe and it's all black and he just couldn't hold on and there is no way you could understand what that's like, what it feels like to--"

"Who's 'he'?"

She inhales sharply, grips the counter behind her. "What?"

House moves closer, forcing her to look up at him. "You said he couldn't hold on. It's not the kid. The kid died of hypothermia. In a lifeboat, with six people around him. Which you know."

"There was more than one kid, House."

"The other one lived. You saved his life."

"It doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

"Because it--"

"It does matter, unless there's someone else you couldn't save--"

"House," she warns.

"Someone you couldn't save because you saved him."

She pushes away from the counter and puts her cup in the sink, keeps her back to him. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Maternal instinct says grab the kid, over-compensating guilt complex says save everyone--"

"House."

"You try to help as many people as you can," he rationalizes, "turns out to be too many--"

She moves to leave, then, but he blocks her easily. "House."

"You have to let go of somebody. Biology says save the next generation--"

She tries again, but he presses closer, pinning her between his chest and the counter. Her voice cracks. "House, please."

"You let go of the dad. You let go of the dad to save the kid."

She swallows, finally meets his eyes. Her body slackens and he stares, watching as she struggles to explain, to decide if she wants to explain. He's close enough to feel her body heat, too far to feel the soft velvet of her dress.

He could let it go. He could move away, or kiss her, or just touch her in some small way and let it go but he can't, won't.

"He told me to let go." It's so quiet, so unexpected that he almost misses it. "His leg was stuck, under the seat, I...I was trying to get him out but his leg was stuck, and his son couldn't swim." She shakes her head. "He told me to let go. Told me to help the other people, he...he had a son." Her voice breaks and she looks up at him, desperate. "He had a son, and a wife and...I let him go."

House nods slowly. "And you think he should be here and you shouldn't because...your life means less because you don't have kids or because you're a lousy doctor." She ducks her head, inhales sharply and he sighs, softens his gaze. "Cuddy..." He draws her name out, tries to bring her back but she moves suddenly, out of his grasp and a good distance from him.

"I'm going to bed," she says harshly, but her whole body's quivering. "Thanks. For that delightful interrogation."

She turns, he follows, grabs her wrist. "Cuddy."

She yanks her arm back with enough force to startle him, make him stumble. He hisses, grabs his leg but she doesn't notice. "Enough, House." He can her hear desperation, the choked back emotion. She's holding it in, probably for his sake, and he's tired of it. Tired of talking to her mask.

"You shouldn't have been on that plane."

She exhales harshly, breathlessly. "I shouldn't have made it off that plane."

And suddenly he's kissing her, pressing her against the wall and tightening his fingers around her hip. He kisses her until she can't breathe, until her knees start to give and her hands wrap around his neck for support, until she gives up, gives in and opens her mouth under his.

He kisses her again with no less force, starts to move; they lean on each other and stumble. She wants to forget and he wants to remind her and the friction makes their movements desperate, hurried. He pulls at the zipper, pushes the dress off her shoulders. She shudders. Fingers on buttons and nails on skin and by the time they reach her room they're both mostly undressed, both fumbling with the remaining clothes.

Her knees hit the edge of the bed suddenly and she falls; he falls with her, crushing her under his weight and she gasps, meets his eyes accidentally.

When he kisses her again it's so much softer, so purposeful. He doesn't know how to tell her, what to tell her. Only knows how to touch her, where to put his lips and teeth and tongue and how to make her feel, and he doesn't really care what just so long as there's that spark, that little, fraying thread that holds them together.

"You're mine, Cuddy," he murmurs, lips just below her ear. She shudders. His tone is low and arrogant but there's something else, some other emotion that she just barely hears, holds fast to. He pulls back so he can see her face, smirks slightly. "God can't have you yet."

"So."

Wilson shrugs, watches the ball bounce off the side and turns the handle, kicks it away from his goal.

"How's Cuddy?"

House looks up long enough to glare. "The funbags are intact, thanks to your chivalry."

Wilson rolls his eyes; House scores the last goal. He grabs his cane, moves to the couches and throws back two pills. His leg only allows him one game of foosball anymore, but Wilson says nothing, just tries to commandeer the remote before House does.

They bicker over General Hospital, debate who's sleeping with who and who's the daddy; Wilson tries to be casual but House can tell there's something on his mind, something slowing his retorts and flattening his one-liners. Finally he rolls his eyes, mutes the TV.

"Just spit it out."

"What?"

"You're distracted. And not by Sam's breasts, which is just blasphemous. So. Spit it out."

Wilson hesitates. "My brother came home," he says finally. Then almost laughs. "He just...showed up. Two days ago. I don't even..." He shifts awkwardly, stares at his hands. "I'd forgotten what his voice sounds like."

House nods, says nothing.

"It takes the end of the world for him to come home," Wilson says absently, shakes his head. "That seems sick."

House just shrugs. "The world can't end," he says, picks up the remote.

Wilson frowns, finally looks at him. "Why not?"

"It'd be too easy."

Wilson nods slowly, not sure whether he agrees or not.

"So when are you leaving?"

He looks up sharply. "What?"

House shrugs. "It's your brother. I assume you're going home."

"I--yeah. Yeah. In a few days, I--I'll be back," he says, not sure if it's a lie or not.

"But I'll miss you oh so much, mommy."

Wilson rolls his eyes, turns back to the TV.

"You have Cuddy."

He rattles his pill bottle. "And thusly why I have drugs."

Wilson gives him a look, but the visible weight is gone from his shoulders. They sit in silence for a long time, then Wilson shakes his head, lets out a dramatic sigh.

"I don't know," he says. "I really think it's Jason's baby."

House snorts. "Idiot."

He's stuffing clothes into a duffle bag; she's taking them out and folding them, replacing them.

"If you do that, my mother will know."

"Know what?" she smirks, wanting to hear him say it.

House glares, throws another shirt on top of the pile.

"That there's a woman enslaving me for her wicked ways." "Yeah, you're tortured."

"You wanna see the bite marks?"

She smirks. "Just making sure no one else tries to claim you while you're gone."

He rolls his eyes, disappears into the bathroom. "Like who, my cousins?"

She shrugs, fingers the zipper. "It's weird to think of you with a family."

He limps back into the room, points his toothbrush at her. "You're the spawn of Satan, not me."

"I thought I was Satan."

He smirks. "We've already established you've got the claws for it."

She smiles, rises and backs away as he closes the bag, throws it over his shoulder. They stay silent. She fixes his collar; he rolls his eyes.

"It's my mother, not the Pope."

"You wouldn't dress up for the Pope." She lets go, steps away. "You want me to go with you?" she asks casually.

He raises his eyebrows. "You want to explain this to my mother?"

She shrugs. "Inertia's not such a difficult concept."

He shakes his head. "I'll be fine."

She nods. "I'll be here."

It takes him three days to get there by train. All flight services were cancelled weeks ago, and he doubts she would have let him fly anyway.

She's cleaning up after the wake, washing dishes and folding and re-folding towels. "I worry about you, Greg," she's saying. "I don't want you--I don't you to be alone. Not now."

He shrugs. "No different now than before."

"Don't be glib."

"I'm not. The world's been ending for a long time, Mom. We just didn't think we'd get to see it."

She sighs, sits down at the table next to him. "Gregory," she says softly. He grabs her hand.

"It's gonna be fine, Mom," he says. "I promise."

"Just. Tell me that there's someone. Anyone. I promise I won't...press you for details, just--"

He smirks lightly. "I'm not alone."

She breathes and audible sigh of relief, places her other hand over his. "Good, good." She pauses, then leans forward again. "Wilson, he's--"

"It's a woman, Mom," he mutters, rolling his eyes at the way her eyes brighten beneath their sadness.

"Oh. Oh! That's--"

"I've even got a picture," he says, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small clipping of Heidi Klum he ripped out of a magazine. His mother smacks his arm in reprimand, but can't hide her smile.

"Gregory!"

He smirks, almost allowing it to be a smile. His mother eyes him thoughtfully, her expression still light.

"You do look happier."

He shrugs, takes the picture back and folds it, absently fingering playing with the creases. "My boss eased up on my clinic duty."

She nods, not quite understanding, and rises, goes back to cleaning dishes. House carefully follows suit, picking up a towel and helping her dry.

"I know you and your father weren't...especially close," she says finally, softly. "But I'm really glad you came."

He nods once, bends down and kisses her cheek, then turns studiously back to the dishes, completely missing her smile.

He leaves two days early, unable to stand the rest of his family or his father's friends, and shows up at her door, travel bag in one hand, cane in the other.

"Everyone's fucked up for a reason."

"He's your reason?"

"I wore a suit for him. I hate him, and I wore a suit for him."

"You wore the suit for your mom," she reminds him, opens the door wider. "Come on."

He frowns, drops his bag and coat on the floor and follows her down the hall into the bathroom. She turns the shower on, starts working with the buttons on his shirt.

"Have I ever told you I like the way you think?"

She laughs. "No."

"Ah. Well--"

She kisses him before he can say anything else.

They're silent, for the most part. A few murmurs here, an empty glower or light smirk there. The steam is thick and his hands are firm and warm against her skin, blending with the hot spray against her back.

He leans against the tile and she leans on him and the reversal makes him roll his eyes, shake his head imperceptibly.

He wrinkles his nose when she pours the body wash into her palm and rubs it over his chest and shoulders.

"I'll smell all girly," he whines, but makes no move to stop her.

"Who's gonna notice?" she counters, and he's about to say something about all the "girls in the yard" when she kisses him, lets her hands drop to wind around his waist. She's balanced on her toes and he's hunched over and it isn't particularly comfortable for either of them, but it works, somehow. Inexplicably.

Out of breath, she lets her heels down, rests her forehead against his chest. He traces her shoulder blades with his fingertips.

When the water starts to lose heat they shut it off; she casually helps him over the lip of her tub, hands him a towel from the back of the door.

He grimaces slightly at the domesticity as they dry off, dress for bed; she boils water for tea and he watches from the archway.

She feels his gaze, looks up and then away, fingers the sash of her robe. When the kettle whistles she's grateful for the distraction, busying herself with mugs and tea bags. She hands him a cup and he takes it, both forgetting for the moment that he doesn't drink tea, doesn't like it, doesn't really want it.

She leans against the counter, takes a careful sip. Then she turns, sets her cup down and stares at the window over her sink. It's too dark to see anything, but it's better than watching him, watching his reaction.

"House, I think..."

"I know," he says. His voice is much softer than he thought it would be and she looks up, surprise and relief and fear and confusion all playing in her eyes. She swallows, raises her eyebrows in a questioning look.

"Princeton General's kind of far, but I get it. Less fodder for the rumor mill. And Karin's good. Won't lie to you."

She knows she should be mad but she's only relieved, for a moment, until she remembers it's House and it's the baby and she turns away, stacking the dishes in the sink, straightening the forks. House rolls his eyes, sets his cup down on the counter and looms behind her. She tenses, sighs and turns, faces him, tells him without words that it doesn't matter, that it's staying. That she'll choose this life over him and over them and he can only dare to oppose her decision.

She buries her fear well, and he almost smiles.

"Okay? she asks, with every implication and ramification laid out. Don't lie to me, it says, and House shrugs, fingers the hem of her shirt, inches toward the buttons. She rolls her eyes. "House."

He pauses, stares at his hand between them, the fabric between his fingers. "Sure," he says, shrugs. He doesn't look at her. "This is one of the signs of the apocalypse anyway."

She smiles.

Part Eleven: The Long Spring

Two weeks later she wakes up and it's still dark out. She looks at her clock and looks out the window and then rises as quietly as she can, grabs her coat and gloves and stands on her front porch. It's only October but the leaves have been dead for months, since the storm, and everything looks so harsh, and yet so quiet.

She hears the door creak behind her and looks over her shoulder.

"What time is it?"

"Nine AM," she says. "I forgot about the eclipse."

"The only thing in the past two years that's been scheduled to happen."

"Yeah," she murmurs, looks up at the sky. She hesitates. "Am I being selfish?" she asks softly, and he doesn't understand what she means until he notices her hands, tight against her abdomen. "We don't know that the world will survive til tomorrow, let alone eighteen years, I--"

"Parenthood is intrinsically selfish," he says. "Eggs don't want to be turned into babies. This world is full of crappy things, Cuddy. Always has, always will be." He shrugs, shifts slightly. "Life is gross, hard, and painful and no one wants be to subjected to that."

"House--" she starts. Her voice cracks; she's misinterpreting him again.

"But it's never stopped anybody before." He pauses, shifts his weight. "Your kid isn't going to hate you because you brought it into a crappy world. It's what you do with that crap that'll make him hate you." She turns away, stares down so that her hair hides her face but it doesn't help. He can see her shoulders trembling, and he sighs softly. "Or love you," he adds.

"I want this so badly," she murmurs.

House nods, moves closer to her side and follows her gaze upward. "One thing I know about you, Cuddy," he mutters. "Guilt has never stopped you from doing what's right."

She looks at him, eyes glassy and cheeks dry and breathless. She's only ever wanted one thing from him and now that it's there, hanging between them she doesn't know how to take it, how to hold it without crushing it; this simple forgiveness.

"I--"

He turns and glares. "I'm not saying anything nice to you for the next week. And in return, I want lots of sex."

She swallows tightly, forces herself to be casual, glib. "Lots of sex for one little compliment?"

"Special brand of currency," he says, stepping closer so that his nose brushes against her ear. "Exchange rates are through the roof."

She leans back slightly, turns her face up to meet his gaze. "I think I'm all right with that."

They stay outside for a few more minutes, but he can't tolerate the cold for long; it hurts his leg even more than before, though he won't admit it. She puts a few logs on the fire and makes breakfast.

"I'm going to work for a little while. There's some paperwork for the last plague victim that I haven't finished, and it needs to go out to the CDC by Monday."

He nods, limps to the couch and takes a seat, turns on the TV.

"I'll stay here and watch porn."

"I don't get porn."

"Your computer does."

She rolls her eyes. "Maybe I'll take that with me."

"Killjoy."

House calls her six hours later telling her that she has to come home. He doesn't say why, just that it has to be now and she spends the entire drive with her heart in her throat and blood pounding in her ears and she stumbles through the door saying, "What is it, what's wrong?", her mind a jumble of the worst things it could be.

House just stares at her. "There was an intruder," he says. "I forgot how to dial 9-1-1. Oh wait--"

"House--" she starts, angry and scared and startled by the soft voice behind her.

"Lise."

She whirls, collides with a solid chest and strong arms and a warm, familiar smile.

"Patrick."

He laughs, holds her close.

"I don't--how did you--when--I've been watching the news every day, they didn't say anything about--"

"CIA operation, apparently," he says. "Completely undercover. I think a grand total of six people knew about it."

She reaches up, touches his face, gently traces the bruise around his hairline.

"I'm okay," he promises. She nods.

"Have you seen mom and dad?"

"Not yet. I called them from the plane. I figured they'd call you..."

"They did," House says. "They were very confused as to why you answered the phone as a man."

She turns to glare at him. "House," she scolds, but her smile won't go away. Patrick nudges her in the ribs.

"So the two of you, huh?"

Cuddy rolls her eyes; House shrugs. "She only keeps me around for the--"

"Don't finish that sentence."

Patrick laughs, kisses the top of her forehead. "Good for you," he whispers.

The eclipse lasts the whole weekend.

House goes home and Patrick stays with her until Monday night, until he can't put off going home any longer. He almost asks if she'll go with him, but decides at the last second that she doesn't need the guilt.

"Are you sure you're going to be all right driving? It's a long way, and it's still dark--"

He nods. "Don't worry about me."

She laughs. "Yeah, right." He hugs her tightly. "Call me when you get there," she says.

He smiles. "And a few times along the way."

She ruffles his hair. "Good boy."

"I am older than you," he mutters, hiding a grin.

"Only in years," she says, gives him one last hug. "My love to mom and dad, and Ben, if he's there."

"Will do," he says, then pauses, smirks. "You really weren't going to tell me, were you?"

She frowns. "Tell you--"

"I'll never forgive you if you name it after Ben."

She blinks. "How did you--"

He flicks her nose playfully. "You're glowing."

"I'm not--"

He laughs at her protest.

"House told you, didn't he?"

Patrick shrugs. "He said you had a surprise that started with 'bun' and ended with 'oven'. I took a wild guess."

"Asshole," she mutters.

"Congratulations, Lise."

She smiles. "Thank you."

She follows him outside, stands by the driver's side of the car as he climbs in. She leans through the window, kisses his forehead, touches his arm one last time.

"Ani Ohevet Otcha," he says softly.

"Ahavah. Always."

She watches the headlights until they disappear.

The sunlight doesn't come back.

Part Twelve: Your Hand In Mine (Goodbye)

The first few weeks are panicked; everyone in every supermarket and every drugstore trying to get what they need. They don't know how long it'll last, only that it's getting colder and colder and darker and darker as things begin to shut down.

All the wars begin to slow and stop.

Transportation falters; ships won't run and no one knows why. Crops die as the temperature drops; people live off canned food, off anything processed. The electricity holds for another two weeks, then dies. Everywhere.

Radios, televisions, nearly all electronic devices are useless.

The hospital generators hold out for a while, but eventually they go, too, and the nurses and doctors who stay just do their best to make sure the patients are comfortable; the ones who remain, anyway.

She's in her office, working by candlelight when the door swings open. She looks up, surprised. "How did you--"

"Walked," he grunts, drops onto her sofa.

She raises her eyebrows. "It's like negative five degrees outside, why did you--"

"Wilson's with his family, and therefore unreachable, TV's out and the beer's...moldy. Or something."

She gives him a sharp look. "So I'm your last resort."

"Who said I was here for you?" He fumbles around in his coat pocket, pulls out his game boy. "I ran out of batteries. For some reason this thing still works." He shrugs. "There're some in my office."

"Elevator's out," she says, rising. She looks ridiculous, he thinks, in all those layers and her scarf and hat. "What drawer?"

"What?"

"I have to go up there anyway, check on the remaining patients."

He nods, relaxes into the cushions. "Bottom."

She disappears into the dark lobby; there are strategically placed candles, and battery-powered lights but she barely needs them. She can navigate the halls with her eyes closed; knows every turn and every stair.

He isn't worried that she's gone for so long, just glares at her when she finally comes back.

"I was about to send the cavalry."

She snorts. "What cavalry? Mrs. Landing just passed away. Her daughter couldn't make it; she wanted someone to sit with her." She shrugs, drops the batteries in his palm. "Here. Last three. Enough to get to the highest level?"

"Twice," he gloats. She rolls her eyes, takes small satisfaction in watching him struggle to insert the batteries without taking his gloves off. He manages, finally, and leans back; the silence is broken by light beeping noises.

She sits back down behind her desk, raises her eyebrows. "You're staying?"

"One-way trip. My leg won't make the walk back, at least not for a while."

"You have enough Vicodin?"

"I've moved on to my secret, secret, secret, secret stash."

She gives him a look. "That wouldn't be the morphine, would it?"

He pats his pocket, keeps his eyes glued to the game. "Not yet," he says, feels her gaze harden behind him. He sighs, turns when he hears her stand, move closer. "What the hell else am I supposed to do?"

"Here," she says, holds out a full bottle of Vicodin.

He looks up at her in surprise. "You have a secret stash?"

"I figured if there was ever an emergency..." She shrugs. "It's full." He gives her a disbelieving look, takes the bottle from her and shakes it. She rolls her eyes. "I didn't take any."

"How should I know?"

"Because I'm not a drug-addicted felon."

"You are an accomplice, but I take your point." He watches as she moves behind her desk, sits down again and pulls a few pieces of paper closer to the light. "What are you doing?"

"Finishing some paperwork." He stares at her blankly. "It makes me feel better."

House shrugs, turns back to his game.

He falls asleep at some point, and when he wakes up she's standing by the window, arms wrapped around her waist as tightly as she can, despite her thick coat. He tries to stand, but his leg protests angrily. The cold and staying still for so long don't help, and he throws back three Vicodin and waits.

"It's so quiet," she says.

He nods. "Dead people tend to have that effect."

She doesn't say anything. Doesn't give him a look or reprimand him and he sighs, pushes himself to his feet and moves slowly closer, trying to see her face.

"It"ll be another ten weeks until--"

She stops suddenly, stays quiet for a long time.

"I just...wanted to feel something. Some kind of proof that I wasn't...making this up, or..." she shakes her head, tries to laugh. "It's silly, really, I--" but when she turns around to look at him he's gone. She frowns, moves toward the door, calls his name. She hears rattling from one of the exam rooms, tries to track his shadow as he comes back, pushes past her.

"Do you have an extra set of gloves?"

"What?"

"Gloves. Wool things, little slits for fingers--"

"In my desk--"

"Gimme."

"What for?" She frowns, still unable to see what he's holding, but does what he asks.

He puts a small bottle in one of the gloves and holds it out for her. "Rub that."

She raises her eyebrows. "'Rub it'?"

"Yeah," he holds the bottle and glove in one hand, makes an obscene up and down motion with the other. "You're better at it than I am."

Cuddy rolls her eyes but takes it from him anyway, watches as he struggles again with the batteries in his game boy, transferring them to something else.

"What are you doing?"

"Lay down on the couch."

"House--" He pushes her towards the sofa, takes the bottle from her and checks it, then puts it back in the glove and keeps rubbing it between his hands.

"Couch. Lay down. Pull your shirts up."

"It's freezing. House--" He pushes her into the sofa, pokes at her legs with his cane until she lies down. He pulls the coffee table closer, sits down at an angle so that he can stretch his leg and reach her stomach. She gasps when the cold air hits her stomach as he unbuttons the bottom of her coat, pushes the layers of clothes up slightly. He pulls one of his gloves off with his teeth and opens the bottle of lotion, rubs it over her skin.

"God that's co--"

"Whiner," he mutters.

"House--"

"Shut up," he says, "And let me listen."

She says nothing, watches as he puts the headphones over his ears and the Doppler against her abdomen. He's silent for a long time, too long, and she turns her head into the pillows.

"Stop," she says. "Just--"

He moves, suddenly, snaps the headphones over her ears.

"There," he says, watches as her eyes widen. Her hand falls over his, holding the Doppler in place. He smirks. "Doesn't get any more real than that." She doesn't say anything, just closes her eyes and listens to the soft, steady heartbeat.

Eventually his hand gets too cold and the lotion hardens against her skin; she pulls her shirts down and buttons her coat and sits up, leans forward and kisses him.

"House, I--"

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters. "Me too." He pauses, smirks. "Sometimes."

She smiles, makes room for him on the couch, rests her head against his shoulder.

He sighs heavily. "Only a cruel, cruel deity would finally give us time and motive for great office sex, and then make it too cold to get naked."

She laughs. "Motive?"

"I just gave you solid proof of the Demon Spawn. I think that warrants office sex."

"I think you're delusional." She touches his forehead with the back of her palm. "Sure you're feeling all right?"

House rolls his eyes, bats her hand away. "You have gloves on. Idiot."

"Misanthrope."

"Wench."

"Thank you," she murmurs.

He opens one eye to look at her. "I don't think that was part of the repertoire."

"Deal with it."

He rolls his eyes, drops one arm so that it falls over her hip. She sighs, shifts closer. "You know," she says softly. "We can say anything we want to each other, now that..."

He nods, and she feels his arm tighten around her waist just slightly.

"Cuddy."

"Yeah, yeah," she murmurs. "Me too."

Your Hand In Mine

by Hihoplastic

Preview

Preview

Preview

Part One: Our Last Days As Children

Part Two: First Breath After Coma

Part Three: The Moon Is Down

Part Four: Have You Passed Through This Night

Part Five: Remember Me As A Time Of Day

Part Six: Magic Hours

Part Seven: Catastrophe and the Cure

Part Eight: Time Stops

Part Nine: Snow and Lights

Part Ten: The Only Moment We Were Alone

Part Eleven: The Long Spring

Part Twelve: Your Hand In Mine (Goodbye)