A/N: Since the whole House/Cuddy/Wilson thing will be going in a new direction with Season 5, I've decided to go in a new direction and basically start all over again. This here is a House/Cuddy story that has nothing to do with the my other House/Cuddy stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Lisa Cuddy sat at a front table in the coffee house, sipping the last of a vanilla cappuccino and reading through one of the fashion magazines she kept hidden in her handbag. The magazines were trash, but good trash, and a guilty indulgence that let her forget about the day-to-day trials, headaches, and challenges that came with running a prestigious hospital. She was damn good at her job and certainly deserved to unwind while looking at ridiculously expensive clothes she'd never wear in a million years.

A shadow suddenly loomed over the glossy pages, then flopped itself into the chair across from her. Cuddy looked up to see Gregory House smirking at her. His eyes were red, his clothes were rumpled beyond recognition, and he was three sheets to the wind.

"What are you doing here?" she asked with a small sigh.

"Sitting," he slurred.

Ever since the bus crash House had been withdrawing himself from the world more and more, drinking his pain away, refusing any offer of help. He didn't want help, he wanted Wilson, but the oncologist still refused to speak to him. House wasn't exactly taking the rejection of his best friend very well. She could almost see another bit of him unraveling right before her eyes. It was both disturbing and sad.

"You smell like a brewery," Cuddy remarked with a trace of disgust.

His smirk widened. "And you smell like FDS."

Another wave of stale booze rolled across the table. "Good God, how many beers did you have?"

"Not enough. I can still walk." His gaze fell on to her magazine. "High fashion," he sneered. "Anorexic bitches paid too much money to look all sweet and pretty; shelling out thousands of dollars for the privilege of wearing a piece of fucking fabric that will be out of style in two weeks. How superficial, even for a fashion victim like you. Or are you reading that shit because Ms. magazine was sold out?"

"House, go home."

"Can't. The bartender took my keys."

"Then take the-" she almost said 'bus' before catching herself in the nick of time. "Take a cab."

"I don't want to go home."

"Then don't. Go ahead and sleep here for all I care." She stuffed her magazine into her bag, pulled out a ten dollar bill and smacked it on the table. "Maybe they'll be nice enough to just mop around you after you pass out under the table."

Cuddy got up and stalked out to the street, making a beeline to her car, shaking with anger and disgust. House was a wreck and she couldn't have him seeing any more patients if he was going to keep on drinking himself into oblivion every night. Tomorrow, if he wasn't sleeping off his hangover, she was going to demand he get some help or else he'd find himself changing soiled sheets all day every day.

She opened the car door and climbed inside.

Then nearly had a heart attack when her passenger door opened and a tall, drunk man with a cane made himself comfortable in her passenger seat.

"For Christ's sake, House, don't you ever that do that again!" She leaned into the steering wheel, catching her breath.

"Don't leave the door unlocked again and I won't."

"I'm taking you home," Cuddy said, sitting back up and starting the car.

"I don't want to go home."

"I'm taking you home."

"You can if you want; I'm not getting out of the car if you do."

"House, stop it! Do you hear me? Stop it!" she snapped. "You're going to shut up and I'm going to drive you home. Understand?"

"And I'm not getting out of the fucking car if you do. Do you understand that?"

The purring of the engine filled the car as they sat there glaring at each other. She had seen House drunk on more than a few occasions and he was usually nothing more than crankier, snarkier, and angrier at everything that happened to catch his attention. He wasn't belligerent and demanding when he drank. He wasn't argumentative. He usually just wanted to go straight home and be left alone to nurse his coming hangover. But not tonight. Her eyes locked with his and then she knew the reason why. He wasn't demanding not to go home because he was drunk out of his mind and didn't know what he was doing. He knew exactly what he was doing and just happened to be drunk. He didn't want to go home because for some strange reason he just didn't want to spend the rest of the evening alone.

"We can sit here and argue until you run out of gas," House began tersely, "or you can endure my company for another hour or two and I'll be on my merry way."

Cuddy sank back into her seat, resigned to the fact that she was stuck with him for a little while longer. She couldn't drag him out of her car and didn't want to hurt his leg by having someone else do it. "Where do you want to go?"

"Wherever you're going."

"I'm going home."

"All the better."

She checked for oncoming traffic, then eased the car into the street. "How long are you going to stay?"

"Until I'm ready to leave."

"I'll call you a cab and you will leave when it gets there."

"Whatever."

The rest of the drive was silent, with House leaning back and closing his eyes against the dizzying flicker of the streetlights they passed, only opening them when the car slowed and pulled into the driveway. He didn't say a word as he followed her to front door. She held it open for him as he stepped inside. Cuddy flipped on the lights and he squinted against the sudden brightness, then stumbled to the couch.

"You got any beer?" he asked, still slurring his words.

"You're not getting another drink tonight."

"Bitch."

Ignoring him, she said, "I'll make you some coffee and call the cab."

"I just got here. I'm not ready to leave yet."

"House, what do you want?" Cuddy crossed her arms and tapped her foot.

"Right now I'd like that coffee, as long as you're in the mood to play dutiful hausfrau." The smirk was back. He was getting under her skin and obviously knew it. "Will you bake some cookies and make my lunch for tomorrow too, Mrs. Cleaver? If I'm really good and eat all my veggies can I have an ice cream cone with sprinkles?"

"I'll be right back." She waited until she was in the kitchen to roll her eyes. God, he was impossible. This was going to be a long night, she thought as she flipped on the coffee maker and resisted the urge to hurl the cup across the room. The warm, almost floral scent of the gourmet Kenyan blend soon filled the kitchen. It was relaxing, a welcome change from the godawful stale beer House seemed to have bathed in.

The largest cup she owned was filled to the brim. Carefully, she grasped the handle, trying not slosh the near-boiling liquid all over her hands and turned to the living room.

In the doorway she caught sight of him and gripped the handle of the cup so hard it was a wonder it didn't break off. Only his profile was visible, but that was more than enough. He was staring past the front door, nibbling on his thumbnail, and she could see everything: the guilt, the nervousness, the worry, the dread. Everything that had been consuming him since the bus crash.

"House?" she said quietly.

He turned to look at her at the sound of his name. Amazingly, his face went blank as if everything else was pushed aside. Everything he didn't want her to see, not yet. Maybe not ever.

She walked over and handed him the cup, then sank into the overstuffed chair next to the sofa. Grasping the cup like he was holding on for dear life, House took a generous slurp. "You're obviously too good for instant like the rest of us drones," he muttered, and took another gulp.

"I like it to have some flavor. How did you know I was at the coffee house?"

"I didn't. I happened to see you enjoying your overpriced super special flavored fucking coffee when I was walking by."

"Why don't you want to go home?"

No answer, just another gulp of coffee.

"Why not, House?"

"I…I just…need some company right now."

"Why?"

"I need something besides the pain in my leg to remind me that I'm alive," he answered flatly, not looking at her.

If Cuddy had been standing her legs would have buckled. The man in her living room was beyond miserable, suffering in a hell she couldn't imagine and didn't want to imagine. Yet it was something House was having to live with every hour of every day. All because of one ill-timed phone call.

He was at her home because he had no one else to turn to, and she had to wonder if she was his last resort.

"I'm glad you're here instead of another bar," she said, hoping it didn't sound as dumb to him as it did to her.

"You were holding my hand in the hospital," he remarked, sounding slightly mystified at the thought. "You were holding it when Wilson walked away."

"I'd hold it again. Have you talked to Wilson?"

House took another gulp of coffee and answered, "He won't talk to me. Have you talked to him?"

"Once or twice. He's been spending a lot of time with his family. You two need to talk to each other."

"That's not going to happen."

"Why not?"

"He's too busy wishing I had died instead of Amber."

Cuddy gasped. "House, how can you say that?"

"Because it's the truth."

"No, it's-"

"He's never going to forgive me. As far as he's concerned I killed her with my own hands."

"Wilson does not think that and you know it," she said sternly.

After a humorless chuckle, House said, "Sure, whatever you say. Tomorrow will be another glorious day filled with laughter and sunshine and puppies. Oh, and Amber will still be dead. Whether it was my fault or not won't matter anymore, right?"

"You tried your damndest to save her."

"It wasn't good enough, was it?" With shaking hands he set the cup down. It was still half-full, steam wafting over the rim. House sat back into the cushion and closed his eyes. "I really hate myself sometimes," he muttered thickly.

He was done for the night, out cold. There was no way of getting him into a cab now.

Looks you have an overnight guest, she thought.

Filled with the need to make sure he was going to be all right, she reached over and brushed the hair from his eyes. His haggard and scruffy face was truly calm for the first time that night. His clothes looked slept in anyway, sleeping in them one more night couldn't possibly wrinkle them anymore.

"Sweet dreams, House," she said softly.

She left one lamp on in the living room so he wouldn't be too confused and trip over the table if he happened to wake up. Before going to finish reading her magazines she took the two bottles of wine she had out of the kitchen and hid them in her bedroom closet.