Usually I write stories for friends from prompts or images or ideas they toss as me. This one is for me. I've always wondered what would have happened if Cuddy had realized she'd acted rashly when she broken up with House in Bombshells and had come to her senses. What if she had been the one, instead of Wilson, to show up at the hotel room during Out of the Chute?

This will only be a few chapters long, but I hope will go deep. It does in my head. I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I obviously am not connected with the show, the creators or the writing team. I'm just borrowing the characters.

Prologue

"Who are you?"

Cuddy pushed passed the scantily clad woman and boldly stepped into the room.

"Hey!" The woman called out. "You can't come in here."

"Watch me," Cuddy grumbled, tossing her purse on the nearest and ignoring the objections as the woman followed her into the bedroom area of the hotel suite.

House froze when he saw her, unable to move or speak, barely able to think as her eyes quickly scanned the room before landing on him with a hardened stare.

Oh, Hell.

His head started spinning and his stomach clenched as he fought the nausea washing over him.

"Who do you think you are?" the woman cried

Cuddy didn't acknowledge the woman as she intensely studied House. He was sprawled out on the bed, a sheet loosely draped over him. His beard was thick, his hair mussed, his eyes wide and dilated. He was stoned, and sexy as hell, in spite of his condition…and the situation. The fact her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him – even when she was so frustrated and hurt and disgusted – only further infuriated her. She refused to cave into the emotions. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"I'm the girlfriend," Cuddy finally said, forcing her jaw to move against the tension she was placing on it.

House noted her voice was steady and controlled. He resented that control; he hated the ease in which she slipped into that frosty mask and cloaked herself in such an impenetrable shield. He'd been sucked into a tempest of spiraling pain, and she whisked around totally unmoved by it all: by the situation, by the break-up, by him. She'd decimated him; she'd walked out, taking everything that mattered to him, and didn't look back. Not once. She went back to work the next day as if nothing had happened. But he'd been a total wreck, barely able to function. He'd finally imploded beneath the pressure, disintegrated into a mass of ash and debris. Maybe it was the relapse, or maybe it was the fact his heart had been ripped from his chest and pounded with a splintered two by four, but he was numb. Lifeless. He was dead. At least he'd thought that until she'd stepped through the door.

She stood there looking so focused, efficient…so beautiful. He hated that he noticed it, hated that his heart beat a little faster and he couldn't take his eyes off her. He hated that she had such power of him, hated that he was so pathetic.

"Ex-girlfriend," he corrected as he glared bitterly at her.

Cuddy turned away and faced the woman: a prostitute obviously. At least she was on the higher end of the spectrum. Not that it mattered. Not that it changed anything at all. She was still a hooker.

"Get dressed and get out," Cuddy said, her voice an almost deadly calm.

"Oh, shit," Lacy muttered and quickly began gathering her clothes that were scattered on the floor.

"You can stay, Lacy," House said defiantly. His stormy eyes never left Cuddy. "She has no rights here."

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. "Are you sure about that?" she challenged.

Her voice was steady and calm, but her eyes were cold. They cut through him with the efficiency of a scalpel and brutality of a rusted knife. At least he was feeling. He wasn't dead after all. An old familiar beast was awakening from hibernation, dark and ugly. Bitter.

"You'll have to wait your turn," he said as he slowly sat up and leaned against the headboard. "You gave up first dibs to my bed when you decided I wasn't worthy of your perfection."

Cuddy didn't flinch. She'd known him long enough to recognize the venom building on his tongue, the defense mechanism he'd mastered and used with skilled precision. She knew it was only just beginning. He would attack her with every weapon in his arsenal before this was over.

"Unless you're offering a threesome," he said. "I'm totally game for that. Especially if it's on your dime…or hundreds."

Cuddy blinked. House could see the stiffening in her spine and his lip twitched in a bitter grin. She wasn't totally immune to him…yet.

He opened his mouth, prepared with another degrading comment. She stopped him.

"Do you really want to go there?" Cuddy asked. Calm again. Frozen.

"What man wouldn't?" he quickly snapped. "You may be a bitch, but you're still hot. At least from behind. A threesome will work perfectly."

Cuddy squared her stance. If she'd been wearing six shooters he was convinced she'd be ready to draw.

"Is this how you want to play it?" The words barely made it through her clenched teeth.

The heat in her stare should have melted him, but he was drawn to it, a moth to a flame. Powerless. Weak. House felt the bile building in his stomach and throat, the burn of deep seeded resentment rising inside him.

"If you're not up for it, you can just watch." He crossed his arms at his chest and glared at her. "Or leave."

Cuddy stepped forward; her eyes narrowed in warning.

"Be very sure, House," she said. "Because if I walk out that door, you will never get another chance. Never."

House felt her chill, the sting of the icy calm emanating from her. There was something in her tone, an unfamiliar threat and yet one he recognized as lethal. It echoed in the tomb of his soul, and he felt an aching need to grab onto something – anything – to save him from his decent into Hell.

Cuddy saw the shift. It was subtle. It was barely a flicker of light in his dead eyes, but it was there. She felt the relief in the pit of her stomach, more burning than soothing. There was so much acid between them; everything was transfigured and deformed, unrecognizable.

"You need to leave," she said, turning back to the woman – Lacy - who was looking at House for direction.

His eyes never left Cuddy. She was the calm, clear headed, take-charge woman he both loved and hated right now. He wanted to break her, to watch that icy exterior shatter. He wanted her to feel: feel what he felt, hurt like he hurt.

Pain. His old companion was returning with a force. Through the haze of drugs and shock, from the numbing dissociative space where he'd escaped, he was feeling. She did that. She brought life to his tomb. He was alive, resurrected into pain, but alive nonetheless. House felt…hope. But he instinctively understood this was a moment that would determine his future.

"Get out," he commanded. Lacy didn't have to be told twice. She quickly gathered her clothes and carelessly dressed.

House watched as Cuddy reached for the jeans that were draped on the chair in the corner of the room and removed his wallet.

"Here," she said, handing the woman some cash. "Don't come back."

Lacy rushed out, more than anxious to leave.

"You overpaid her," House said when the door closed behind her.

Cuddy didn't answer. She was slipping back behind that cold, hard wall, leaving him alone again, lost and exposed.

"How many did you take?" She asked.

"Why do you care?"

She'd known he'd relapse when she walked out on him. Now she wanted to play the concerned doctor?

Cuddy moved to the side of the bed and picked up the amber bottle. She wasn't going to ask where he got the prescription. She didn't want to know.

"Was it new?" she asked, opening the lid and examining the contents.

"Yes."

Shit. Cuddy turned away from his stare, closing her eyes and swallowing the anguish she felt.

There were only four left. It was amazing he hadn't dropped into a coma. This was no small relapse. He'd gone all in; true to form.

"Get up," she said, pushing the bottle toward him. "Go flush it."

They'd have to detox. They'd have to start from scratch. This time with help.

I'm going to need help.

House watched her processing. He saw the slight movement of her eyes as she assessed the situation and immediately came up with a plan. The leader taking charge. The problem-solver. The administrator in action.

The woman was nowhere to be seen, hidden behind a cloak of focused determination and drive.

Go flush it. She was demanding and bossy, and annoying.

"Come on," she said. "You need to flush them."

She was already developing a plan in her head: a step-by-step guide to managing House in crisis. She had established the threat, assessed the risk, and come up with a plan in a matter of seconds. He recognized this Cuddy, had seen her in action all too often over the years. He could anticipate her moves, could almost predict her words, but he couldn't read her. He had no idea what she was thinking, what she was feeling about him. About them. It was as if the conduit that had connected them, the invisible wire that transmitted internal data with force and clarity, was shorted, severed. It was disconcerting

"I hardly think you're in any position to play dictator," he said, latching on to the resentment and anger brewing inside him. He hated the anxiety that gripped him, the panic he felt: hated that he needed her so much, needed that connection. "You dumped me, remember?"

She had no right to come in here and make demands. She'd bailed on him, walked away without a second thought. She didn't have a right to come in here so controlled and unfeeling, telling him…

"Get up now!"

House jumped, startled by the barely concealed fury in her tone.

She was pissed. He felt strangely pleased. He felt a sense of hope, a weak and pathetic optimism that could very well be dirty, dingy trash pushed through a sewer and washed up on a rock. Saved, but from what? For what?

House flung the sheet from his waist and pushed himself off the bed.

She was here. She'd brought him back to life, freed him from his tomb of numbing nothingness, but now he was trapped in the rotting emotions he couldn't even begin to process.

"Is this what you wanted?" he sneered, standing naked before her and stepping into her personal space. He was angry. It was an emotion he could understand, a feeling he knew how to express. "You needed to see again what you were missing? You realized you were walking out on the best fuck you'll ever have?"

He towered over her, threatening and intimidating. She didn't flinch.

"Take the bottle, House," she demanded. "Go flush the pills."

"Why? So you can feel like a superhero, swooping in to save the day?"

"That's your fantasy," she said, her voice beginning to shake with volatile mix of sadness and fury.

"My mistake," he shrugged. "You're no savior. You're just another girl who talks a game of love, but makes damn sure no one will ever meet your standards."

"I'm not going to talk about this, House," she warned.

"I could never be the man you want. You knew that all along."

"This isn't about what I want." She was determined to remain calm, to keep a clear head. She couldn't give in to the emotions that threatened to overtake her.

"No, it's about power and control," he bit back. "And emotional blackmail."

"You're the puppet master, not me." Her words held a bite and she knew she was slipping. She took a deep breath, determined to focus and keep level head.

"Is this what you want?" she asked. "Is this why you brought me here? To call me names? Attack me? To place blame?"

"I didn't bring you here. You came all on your own."

"Because it's what you wanted," she said. "All the drugs and alcohol, not showing up for work…"

"And that's what's really got you worked up," he snapped. "That's I didn't show up for work. I performed a DDX from a hotel bed."

"You wanted me to come, and now I'm here," she wasn't detoured. "You won. Does it make you feel better?"

"Oh, good," he said. "We've moved to the patronizing. Now you can point out how needy and self-destructive I am, while you can feel superior."

"I don't feel superior."

"You don't feel anything."

"I'm not going to fight with you."

"Of course not," he said. "This isn't where we fight. This is where you demand I take responsibility for my actions while you start playing the dictator."

"I'm not a dictator."

"You just want everything your way."

"This is not what I want."

"What do you want?"

"For you to flush these pills."

"And then what?" He leaned toward her. She took a step back. "I declare my undying love for you? Beg you to take me back?"

He took another step toward her, successfully trapping her against the wall. "You should have stayed with Lucas," he snarled. "He was a better pawn for your game."

Cuddy flinched.

"This isn't a game." Her voice trembled; her jaw tightened.

"Oh, right," he snapped his fingers. "He wasn't good in the sack. Poor Cuddy! Can't be happy unless you're in control; can't get off unless…"

"You son of a bitch!" Her hand stopped just before it made impact with his jaw.

House stood stunned; Cuddy gasped. He didn't know who was more shocked. In a flash, she had lost control, given into the emotions he hadn't believed she'd been hiding. He was sucked into the storm of her grey eyes and they sliced at him with anger, guilt and grief.

"Is that what you want?" she asked. "For me to slap you?"

She released an almost hysterical laugh, side stepping him and moving away from the wall.

"You want me to punish you so you can feel better about yourself." She pushed her fingers through her hair as she tried to gain some control, some perspective. He felt the frustration rise.

"Now you're going to psycho-analyze? That's just great."

"Fuck you, House," she said. "I'm not feeding your pathology. That's not why I'm here."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because you need me," she snapped. "And I know what it's like to need someone and wait endlessly for them to show up. I know what it feels like when they don't."

House recoiled. The shame and anguish he'd been denying crashed down on him. He was helpless beneath the weight.

"I was there," he whispered.

Cuddy sighed. He was there; he was just high.

"You hurt me," she said.

"You hurt me back."

She stared at him, mouth agape.

"Seriously? That's your response?" She shouldn't be surprised. "You didn't even give me a chance to recover before you jumped into an orgy."

House could see past her bravado, beyond the anger and control. For the first time since she'd walked through the door, he could read her, could see the vulnerability she was frantically fighting hide, to overcome. Her shoulders were slumped and her skin was pale. She was tired, physically weak and emotionally spent. And she was here.

"You broke up with me," he said defensively, reflexively.

She stared at him with eyes glistening from unshed tears. She looked fragile and broken. House felt the oxygen drain from his lungs.

"You won, House. You got me. With your hookers and your total disregard for everything we shared, I'm still here," she said, her voice cracking beneath the pressure. "I'm fighting for you. Something you didn't do for me. But that's all I can do. The rest is up to you. You can flush those pills down the toilet and go wash the stench of that whore off you, or I can leave. But I can't fight with you anymore. I'm too tired."

Whatever rebellion he'd been planning, whatever defensive attack he'd positioned was thwarted. The bitter anger was instantly replaced by a broken, desperate hope.

"You want to save this?" his voice quivered; his eyes became glassy and red-rimmed. His face was bared of all masks and façade and he gazed at her with raw emotion.

"I need you."

House felt dizzy. And determined.

He bent to pick up the bottle she had inadvertently dropped on the floor between them. Cuddy watched as he cautiously and tentatively limped to the bathroom. He was naked, totally bare and broken. She wanted to be angry, angry that he'd hurt her, that he'd betrayed her in so many ways. Instead she felt the warmth of love surrounding her. What a fool she was.

She pulled her cell phone from her back pocket and scrolled through the names as she followed House into the bathroom. He flushed the pills down the toilet and tossed the empty bottle into the trash before turning to look at her.

"Hey, it's me," she said into the phone. It was Wilson. He didn't have to ask. "I'm at the hotel."

House turned to start the shower. She wanted him to sober up; he wanted to wake up. He wanted the past few days to be a dream.

He gripped his thigh as he turned the hot water nozzle to a higher setting. He wanted the pain to stop. He wanted to be free. He wanted…

"It's bad," she said as she turned back into the bedroom. "I'm going to need some supplies. Can you get them for me?"

House stared at his reflection in the mirror, gripped the vanity with his fists as he leaned against it for support.

"I don't know," he could hear her voice through the door. She was frustrated and impatient. "I don't have time to worry about me right now and I can't take another lecture. Believe me, I hate myself enough. Just do this for me, please. He won't make it through a detox without it."

She was just days out of the hospital and instead of taking the time she needed to heal, she was rescuing him.

Do you think I can fix myself? The words haunted him.

He hadn't even tried.

House stepped into the shower to drown out her voice. He needed to wash away more than the "stench of that bitch" as she'd so eloquently put it. He needed to wash away the filth of shame and self-loathing he felt. House was pretty sure he'd need more than water for that.