Author's note about this fic: I have only recently been able to re-watch seasons 7 & 8, mostly out of curiosity about if I'd watch the eps differently, after all this time. Short answer… no. But it did spark a fic idea—What if House had just returned the damn hairbrush?

Author's random note: A few of you who get notifications when I publish have asked me about one I recently posted then took down a couple hours later—"Leaves Change." Sorry about that. It was me dipping into writing about House again and I was tipsy when I wrote/posted and quickly decided it needed a lot more work. Lesson… Don't drink and fic. (Write them, anyway. Reading them drunk is safe. LOL)

Chapter 1

House limped. Throughout the last near-decade of his life, everywhere he went, he limped. The people closest to him barely noticed anymore; the limp was as much a part of him as his nose or his voice. Even he himself forgot about it. He got around with the limp the way Cuddy got around on stilettos or Taub had to take three steps for everyone else's two. But sometimes, in some contexts, he was very conscious of that limp.

House limped up Cuddy's walk toward her front door. Wilson waited in the car behind him, and House held the hairbrush—the final remnant of their official romantic relationship—tightly in his grasp, preparing himself to hand it to her and walk away, back toward the status quo. And goddammit, he wished he didn't limp, so he could walk away with some semblance of dignity and grace, and not like the wounded man he was.

As he approached the porch he saw the… the what? The party? The date? The gathering, at any rate. He saw Cuddy laugh and touch some good-looking guy on the shoulder, then practically dance toward the kitchen with a pile of plates. And there he was, limping up to her door with her precious hairbrush.

Something shifted inside House right then. Somehow he was able to see the trajectory of his life, specifically his life with this woman, in high relief, as if he could reach out and touch remembered moments. He rang her bell.

Cuddy came to the door and when she saw it was him she looked surprised, sheepish, and steeled all at once. "Hi, House," was all she said, as she raised her eyebrows in inquiry. He answered by holding out the hairbrush for her to take. "Thank you," she said quietly, looking in his eyes for more. "I'd invite you in, but—"

"No, you wouldn't," he interrupted. "And that's fine. But I need you to know that I quit."

Cuddy's hand went to her hip and he saw her sigh a little. "You quit what, exactly?" she said, with a hint of exasperation.

House heard people laugh inside. He sucked in his lips for a moment, but stared at her evenly. "This. Our, whatever, relationship. The cycle we're in. My job." He saw her brow furrow. "Only the last one really concerns you."

"What do you mean, House?" she asked, skeptical and irritated.

"Consider this my—What's today?" He glanced at his phone. "My two hours' notice. See ya… well, maybe never, I guess." He turned and started limping down the walk, trying to garner as much of an actual stride as his body would allow.

"God, House. I don't have time for this right now," she called to his back. "I'll talk to you about whatever it is you want later, okay? I'm not trying to be a bitch here, but I have people over." House didn't pause walking. He got to the car and looked at her briefly over the roof. She was standing in her doorway—gorgeous, confused, and fidgeting.

"Bye, Cuddy."

[H] [H] [H]

Wilson and House were sitting at the bar, finally. Wilson had helped House clean out his office, nervously oscillating between hand-wringing caution and supportive cheerleading. For every "Are you really sure?" he uttered, he also proclaimed, "I think this is good for you. A fresh start."

The truth was—House was trying to explain to Wilson over beers and darts—he didn't need a fresh start so much as some kind of interruption to the pendulum's swing. He liked his job, and even his team. He'd have liked to stay where he was, all things considered. But working with Cuddy had just gotten too hard, mainly because it worked in her favor.

"She may have dumped me, but she doesn't want to let me go," House explained. "She always wants to know I'm in the wings there, in case she changes her mind."

Wilson considered what he was saying. "You say this like you two were an officially on-again, off-again couple. Maybe with time, a new post-breakup dynamic would develop."

House shook his head as he took a swig from his bottle. "Even before we got 'official,' she did this. We'd get to the edge of something, and it would go all wrong, but she never wanted to shut down the possibility entirely. That's why when I'd almost blow up my life—jail or Vicodin—she'd swoop in at the last second if she was really going to lose me."

Wilson threw his final dart, then went to collect them. "Or, and I know this is out of left field, she loves you."

"It's not about love, Wilson." House threw his dart. "It's about actually doing it. Either you're in or you're out. She always wanted to straddle me. And not just in the hot way."

"What about when you went over the cuckoo's nest?" Wilson pointed out as House continued throwing his darts. "She seemed to move on then. And you were the one who couldn't handle it."

House sighed as he went to collect his darts. "Exactly my point. When I was out of her life, she moved on. And I did too, a little. But then I went back to work and I couldn't handle us not being us. And she, much as she protested, was happy with that."

"She got engaged, House. It hardly seems like some kind of strategic move. I don't think Cuddy's so juvenile as to fake an engagement to get your attention."

"No, but she does crave tidiness and 'rightness' enough to get caught up in the picket fence and dinner party conversation Lucas was peddling."

"Okay," Wilson relented. "So why did she end it?"

"A-ha!" House said. "That's what I realized. She ended it because I ended it. I gave her my blessing, we screamed ourselves out of each other's lives, and then she saw a future without me in it."

"So she ended her potential marriage, created tons of emotional chaos, and ran over to your place just to keep you on her hook?"

"It's addiction, Wilson. She wants something she believes is bad for her. You can resist it, but eventually you face the fear that maybe nothing else can make you feel that way. And at that point, you do stupid things."

"So trying a relationship with you was stupid?"

"Clearly!" House said, as if Wilson were an idiot.

"Maybe it was… an experience. A valuable era of your lives."

"It was moronic," House concluded. "Look, Cuddy and I are attracted to each other, on a million levels. I even think you could call it love. But I said it once and I'll say it again. We don't work. Not as a couple and not—I finally realize—as whatever else we try to be. If either of us has a shot at anything besides something that doesn't work, we gotta get away from each other."

"Huh," Wilson grunted, digesting his theory. "We'll see how that works.

[H] [H] [H]

She hadn't believed it. She really hadn't. Until she stood there in his empty office, she'd thought he was bluffing or starting up some new game. But standing there then, the full reality of what he'd said hit her. She did not have the assurance anymore that she would see him nearly every day, or at least have the excuse to call him if she didn't, on professional grounds.

Standing there in that glass room, with no chair or lamp, no ball or mortar and pestle, she suddenly felt the absence of him with such profundity, it made her nauseous. Given this situation, how would she see him again? That is, without putting herself out on a limb and admitting she needed to see him.

Foreman came into the office. "What's the plan?" he asked, never one to beat around the bush. He'd startled Cuddy.

"Um… I'm not sure yet."

"If you're shutting the department down, we need to know. But, with all due respect to House, I don't think that's necessary. I can run it."

Cuddy looked away from the emptiness, right to Foreman. It suddenly hit her that the whole reason she had this department was not purely on its own merit. She'd created it for House. To keep him close. Now it was just an empty cage.

[H] [H] [H]

House opened his door to find Cuddy standing there. He'd expected this at some point, so he was prepared and immediately braced himself for any emotional impact that was coming his way.

"Hi, House." Her voice had started with a forced casualness, but then turned hesitant.

"Cuddy."

They stood there in silence for a moment.

He cleared his throat. "I'm gonna move now cuz I don't have great memories off this whole thing," House said, gesturing between them, positioned in his doorway. "Come in," he added, walking back to the couch. "Don't slip on the remnants of my heart on the floor there."

"Is that really necessary?"

He didn't look at her. "You want to know how I feel." He looked up pointedly, "Right, Cuddy?"

She sat on a chair across from him. He continued staring at his television. "Can you turn that off?" she asked wearily. She saw the muscles in his jaw clench and he waited a moment, but then shut it off. He dropped the remote on the couch, but continued staring at the blank screen. Cuddy sighed. "I want you to come back to work."

House blinked, but didn't look at her. "You know as well as I do about getting what you want."

"I can get you another team member. Cut your clinic hours." Silence. "House, what can I do to make this work?"

"You don't get it."

She sighed again. "What don't I get? What are you after?"

"You don't get to have me," he told her harshly, looking at her finally, his face a cross of hurt and anger. Cuddy was startled by his response. He continued, "This is how we work, Cuddy."

"How we work?"

House looked tired. "I want you. You want me. But instead of making that work, we just circle each other in an endless loop."

"House, this is strictly professional."

"Oh, cut the crap, Cuddy!" he snapped. "You always delude yourself that it's professional. But when I have been my most unprofessional, you come for me."

"House, I…" She gathered her thoughts. "I care about you. I want to help you."

"Thanks," he said sarcastically. More silence. He started muttering, almost to himself. "Tritter. Vogler, My leg, even. The methadone." He ramped up and she listened. "You keep me at arm's length until you're backed in a corner. That's when you can love me, Cuddy. Even that night." He paused and Cuddy waited. "I'm an idiot," he lamented. "You were fucking engaged. And you hid it from me. You hid moving in together. Because you can't end this," he proclaimed. "And then I found out and you knew it was going to end. We had that fucking fight and I gave up on you." He looked at her. "And you knew I did."

"I was worried about you."

"Bullshit. You were worried about us. You were worried I'd do exactly what I did—go home, get stoned, and resign myself to getting over you. And you don't want me to get over you."

"I don't want you hurting, House," she defended. "I'm not a monster."

He rubbed his face and took a sip of his drink. "You don't want to hurt. You want me available for when you're ready, when you want to test me out. But you won't actually let yourself have me. You shut me out with silent treatment, pick apart everything I do with you, until it makes no sense anymore. But still you want me available, in case you change your mind."

She sat there and considered if he was right. She remembered how during the "official" relationship, she couldn't stop looking at everything that was wrong, doubting them. The whole time she had been preparing herself for their demise.

"And I get it, Cuddy. It's like my fucking leg. It doesn't work how I want it to work. It hurts me. So I curse the fucking thing. And I think sometimes about amputation—if we'd done it, if I should choose to do it now. But I don't want to cut it off. I need it there. I need it available because maybe somehow I can fix it one day. Or learn to tolerate it." Cuddy was hugging herself tightly now because every time he brought up that defining injury she went back there, to when she held his very life in her hands. "But the thing is," he continued, "I'm not your appendage, Cuddy. You're attached to me and I'm damaged, but I am not yours to keep just because you can't decide." He sighed. "You don't want to lose me, but you're too scared or controlling or equivocal to do this with me."

"I tried! Screw you!" she yelled. She was tired of being positioned as the only one at fault here. "I tried and we fought all the time."

"That's not true," he argued back. "We had fun—"

But she cut him off. "You'd lie to me. And disrespect me. And be a pain in my ass." Then she laid down her trump card. "And you took Vicodin when I needed you."

"I took Vicodin because you needed me!" he yelled. There was a moment of silence. "You kept thinking this was supposed to be easy, Cuddy! But we were working on it, dammit!" He took a breath to calm down. "We were figuring it out, one fight at a time. And you came over here and accused me and I admitted it. I didn't lie, even though you couldn't prove it. I went against my nature because by that time, like a moron, I thought we were solid. I knew it was big, but I thought we would get through it. Until you quit on me."

Cuddy's eyes stung with tears that she refused to let fall. "So now you've quit on me."

He sat back into the couch. "It isn't revenge. It's resignation. I'm tired of wondering every day if I should kiss you… wondering if you want me to." They stared at each other across the expanse of that endless wondering. "It's not the job," House underscored. "It's not a game. I'm quitting this." He cleared his throat. "And if you care about me at all," he said, "you'll stop walking in my door in the middle of the night and, for once, just walk out and leave me. For good."

Cuddy's breath. He'd knocked it out of her. On shaky legs she stood up and slowly walked to the door. She paused with her hand on the knob and looked back at him, still seated on the couch looking away from her.

"I do care about you, House. More than you know." She walked out.

"That's the problem," he said into the dusky light. And then, for the first time since the break-up, before he reached for the Vicodin he let himself cry a little.