It felt surreal to be back at the hospital—everything the same, but different.

The same muted wall paint, the same reassuringly neutral carpeting, the same blandly antiseptic smell.

But of course, everything was different, too. He had just been released into the custody of Foreman, no less, from a medium security prison. He had no team. An orthopedic unit had taken over his old office. And, as far as he knew, his two best friends weren't speaking to him.

"Cuddy wants to see you," Foreman said. He started leading House down the hallway.

"I was in prison, not an Alzheimer's ward," House said. "I can find her office on my own."

"She specifically said that she wants me there, too," Foreman replied.

House tried to mask his disappointment. He gave a half shrug.

They made their way to Cuddy's office. House's heart was pounding so loudly in his chest he feared that Foreman could actually hear it.

They opened the door.

She looked great, of course. But then, she always did. She was wearing one of her killer power suits —a dark gray color, with a cream-colored lace camisole underneath. Her hair was a little longer—it hung in loose waves around her face.

"Madame Warden, I presume?" House joked, trying to keep his voice steady.

She looked at him, did not smile.

"I agreed to Foreman's little plan to get you out of prison because I know you can do more good out here than in there," she said sharply, resting some papers on her desk.

"But here's how it's going to go, House. You are not going to report to me anymore. You are going to report to Foreman. You submit all insurance forms and all staffing requests to him. You want a biopsy? Talk to Foreman. You want approval for a transplant? Talk to Foreman. You want to blow up someone's brain? Talk to Foreman. If you have a problem with Foreman, tough. He's your new boss. As for me, you don't talk to me, you don't look at me, you avoid me in the hall. Is that understood?"

House's mouth dropped open. He looked for some sign that she was joking, but she was dead serious.

"Yes," he said dumbly.

"Foreman, you okay with this?"

"Absolutely," Foreman said.

"Then we're done here," Cuddy said. She looked back down at her papers.

Foreman started to leave, but House just stood there, frozen in his tracks.

"C'mon House," Foreman said, almost gently.

"Wait," House said. He looked at Cuddy, "Can I talk to you for a second alone?"

"No," she said. Her face was nearly an impenetrable mask, but House saw her bottom lip quiver just the tiniest bit. So she was human, after all.

"Please," he said. "Foreman can wait right outside the door, okay? I just need one minute of your time."

Cuddy sighed, exasperated. She looked at Foreman, nodded a bit.

"I'll be right outside," Foreman said. His new alliance with Cuddy made him feel omnipotent.

"What?" she said testily, after he left.

House was taken aback by the anger in her voice.

"How are you?" he said.

"None of your business. We don't have personal conversations anymore, House."

"How's Rachel?" he said, ignoring her.

Now Cuddy's eyes flashed: "And you never, ever say her name again—understand?"

House swallowed hard. His shoulders slumped.

"Did you at least get my letters?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"And. . .?"

"I burned them. Now go back to work and make yourself useful House. Don't make me regret my decision."

He didn't really get it at first. A few days later, he wandered into Cuddy's office to complain about Foreman.

"Get out," she said.

"But he's being completely irrational!" he said.

"Get out House, before I call security," she said, picking up the phone.

He looked at her incredulously, then left.

#####

He saw her in the hallway a few times, said "hi," but she strode by purposefully each time and ignored him.

Once, he got on an elevator she was on, but she exited the minute she saw him.

"Really Cuddy?" he said, as the elevator door closed.

####

"She despises me," he moaned to Wilson later that day. (It had been surprisingly easy to win Wilson over. One good clock to the jaw and he was back in his best friend's good graces.)

"What did you expect?"

"Anger, sure," House said. "But she's been positively arctic. It's been 3 weeks. No thaw whatsoever."

"You crashed a car into her house!" Wilson exclaimed. "She and Rachel had to live with her mother for four months."

"And I went to jail for a year!" House said. Then he added, only half-joking, "Although it's possible I got the better end of that deal."

Wilson scratched his head.

"You do realize that Cuddy didn't do anything wrong, don't you? You're the criminal. She's the victim."

"She lied to me," House muttered.

"What lie?"

"She told me she wasn't seeing anyone when she was clearly screwing that guy. It was a fucking Norman Rockwell tableaux. One big happy family."

Wilson's jaw dropped open.

"Get a grip, House. There never was a guy. That was just some colleague of Julia's. It was the first—and last—time Cuddy ever saw him."

"Oh," House said. He suddenly felt a bit ridiculous. His hatred of that unworthy little prick was all that kept him going in prison sometimes.

"Well, how was I supposed to know that?" he said lamely.

"Good point, House. Your insane act of violence would've been completely justified if Cuddy actually had been dating that guy."

House cast his eyes to the ground. He sighed.

"I wrote her 86 letters in jail, Wilson. Eighty-six. She burned them all."

"She's done with you. Move on. She has."

"She's never done with me," he said stubbornly. "Just like I'm never done with her."

"House, you want to do the right thing by Cuddy for a change?"

"Of course," House said.

"Then respect her wishes and leave her alone. It's the most decent thing you could possibly do."

#####

House took Wilson's advice and gave Cuddy her space. It was painful—almost unbearable at times. But it was what she had asked for—and probably what he deserved.

But four months later, he and Cuddy found themselves forced to interact for the first time.

He had been sued for malpractice—again. This actually happened quite often—the hospital even kept a separate legal fund just for such occasions (although, in fairness to House, most of the money for the fund came from grants he had secured from grateful patients.).

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they were able to settle out of court. But in this one particular case, the plaintiffs—the elderly brother and sister of a man who had died of a stroke on the operating table under House's care—were being intractable.

Both House and Cuddy were due in court. The hospital arranged a car and driver for them. Cuddy was going to sit in the front seat, but decided that would just call attention to herself. So she slid into the backseat next to him.

"Sorry you have to do this, Cuddy," House said, edging away from her, so he was almost pressed up against the door.

He had dressed up for the occasion in a blue suit and red tie. He had even shaved.

"It's my job," Cuddy said, reaching into her purse for a compact and fixing her makeup.

He looked at her longingly for a second, then leaned his head against the window, and said nothing.

In court, she was forced to testify on his behalf.

"Dr. House cures the incurable," she said. "But he only can do that if he's allowed to practice medicine his own way—with a little bit of reckless abandon."

She was looking straight ahead, addressing the lawyer, not making eye contact with House at all.

"His methods are unconventional, radical even, but he saves lives," she continued. "Take away his ability to take risks and you take away part of his genius. When Dr. House is allowed to practice freely, without fear of baseless malpractice suits"—here she glanced, briefly, at the plaintiffs—"there is no better doctor in the world. I've said it many times before and I'll say it again, if a family member or dear friend was sick, I would move mountains to get that loved one to Dr. House."

Her kind words were like a balm to House's soul. She hadn't so much as smiled at him in five months. But she still wouldn't look at him.

After she spoke, the plaintiffs' lawyers hastily asked for a recess and another settlement was quickly arranged. House never even had to testify.

They drove back to the hospital in another uncomfortable silence.

Finally, House spoke: "What you said in there . . . I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it," she said.

"Did you really mean all that?"

"Of course I meant it," she said. "I don't make a habit out of lying in court."

Back when they were dating, he would tease her about the time she had perjured herself on his behalf. "I've seen you lie on a stack of Bibles, woman—you have no credibility" he would crack, whenever she claimed to like the crappy TV show he had just forced her to watch, or made flattering statements about his prowess in bed.

"Thanks," was all he said now.

"I didn't do it for you, House. I did it for the hospital."

"I know. But thanks all the same."

"You're welcome," she said. There was something so impersonal in the way that she said it—she truly could've been talking to a stranger—but he saw it as an opening, no matter how slight.

"Cuddy. . .I. . ."

"Don't," she said sharply. "Don't read anything into this. You're a valuable asset to this hospital and that is all. You mean nothing to me."

House fiddled with his cane, closed his eyes.

"I miss you," he said, almost inaudibly. "Don't you miss me even a little?"

"No," she said.

#####

House had been back at the hospital for almost a year when Wilson came into his office. He had a somewhat pained look on his face.

"Did you hear?" he said.

"Hear what?"

"Cuddy's mom died," Wilson said.

"What?" House tried to process the news. He felt slightly sick. "How?"

"Massive heart attack. In her sleep."

"Jesus, poor Cuddy. That's horrible."

"In accordance with Jewish custom, the funeral is tomorrow," Wilson said, hesitating a second. "And I think you should stay away."

"And why do you think that?"

"Because being around you is painful to Cuddy—and I don't think you should add to her pain."

"I'll take it under advisement," House said.

######

The funeral was a bit of a blur to Cuddy.

Rachel still didn't fully grasp the finality of death—she kept asking when she could play with grandma again—but she did at least seem to grasp the solemnity of the occasion. She clutched Cuddy's hand tightly and was uncharacteristically quiet.

Julia was a mess. She'd always been closer to Arlene. Luckily, her husband was a complete rock. Cuddy saw him rubbing her shoulders reassuringly during the ceremony. She had a momentary pang. She looked at Wilson, who was sitting next to her. He squeezed her hand.

The ceremony was nice—the rabbi had known Arlene for years and spoke warmly of her stubbornness and outsized personality. The gatherers cried and then they laughed, as it should be at a funeral.

As she was numbly leaving the temple, Cuddy noticed a hunched figure in the far back row, in the shadows. His head was slightly bowed, his long legs were bent uncomfortably into the pew. He didn't look up—but even if she hadn't seen his cane, she'd know that posture, that sort of sad and regal face, anywhere.

House.

#######

Cuddy took a deep breath and entered House's office.

He was sitting alone at his desk, looking at a scan, his wire-rimmed glasses pushed low on his nose.

He blanched a bit when he saw her, took off the glasses.

"Hi?" he said, like it was almost a question.

"Hi," she said. She paused for a long while. "Thank you for coming to the funeral. It was . . . nice of you."

"You saw me, huh?" House said. "Wilson told me not to go. But I wanted to pay my respects to the formidable Mama Cuddy."

"Mom would've appreciated it," she said. "She thought you were an arrogant schmuck. That's high praise in my mother's book."

She smiled at him and he smiled back. They both seemed to want to say something more.

Finally, she said: "So anyway. That's it. Thank you."

She turned to leave.

"Cuddy, are you going to be okay?" he asked, when she got to the door.

She blinked away a tear.

"I'm going to be just fine, House."

######

Late that night, she went into the attic. All 86 of House's letters were in a box, tied together with a string.

She had never opened them.

She sat on a chair, made some tea, and pulled the first letter out of its envelope.

Dear Cuddy,

It's me, your favorite jail bird.

Well, it finally happened. My so-called "anti-social tendencies" landed me in jail. We both knew it was just a matter of time, right?

But here's the thing, Cuddy, the thing I can't quite wrap my mind around: I'm here because I hurt you.

The irony of that, of course, is that you are literally the last person on earth that I want to hurt. You've never been one of the assholes keeping me down. You've been the angel holding me up. (That was pretty good, huh? Maybe I'll start writing poetry now that I have all this free time on my hands.)

So this sucks. A hell of my own making, I think they call it.

I know that you always find it in your heart to forgive me, but something tells me I screwed up a little more than usual this time. (The metal cage I'm in was my first clue.)

All I can say is, I'm sorry. I'll apologize to you every day for the rest of my miserable life if it helps.

Yours in carceration,

House

Hey-

Me again. So you didn't write back. Crap.

I don't blame you. I wouldn't write back to me either.

I keep having these nightmares where I hurt you and Rachel and then I keep waking up and. . .well, you know the rest. . . the nightmares are real.

I don't want to blame the vicodin. . but did I mention how much vicodin I was on that day?

Lots. Lots and lots of vicodin.

I'm not making excuses. That was me. Driving the car. Wielding the brush. (Hey, at least I returned your brush, right? Bad joke.) I remember actually feeling good about it at the time. It was a release, you know? I think you and Wilson had observed that I wasn't "in touch with my feelings."

Well, now I am in touch with my feelings and here's how I feel: Like complete and utter garbage.

On the bright side, you'll be happy to know that my cellmate looks like a villain in a Bond film, the neo-Nazis around this joint like to use my skull as punching bag, and I'm on this tiny regimented dosage of vicodin that keeps me just on the edge of constant agony.

Guess I deserve it.

I leave you with this deep thought: If you write a letter from a chain gang is it considered chain mail?

Yours in the Big House,

House

Dear Cuddy-

I'm dying in here. Well, not literally. Well, kind of literally.

Can't you just give me some sort of sign—maybe a letter or a phone call or a smoke signal to tell me that you are okay and that you don't completely hate my guts?

I'm feeling pretty alone.

-H

At some point, he stopped asking for forgiveness and just started writing about his day to day activities.

Hey-

I didn't' t know it was physically possible to remove all flavor from food, but they have done it. It looks like meatloaf. It vaguely smells like meatloaf. It seems to even contain actual meat. But it tastes like pre-digested cardboard. Geez, who do you have to kill for a little flavor around this joint? (Just a little prison humor for ya.)

-H

p.s. I'm sorry.

Hey-

I found the one positive thing about this hellhole. Books. For some reason, people like to donate books to us degenerate types. There is an entire section on dark matter and the Big Bang Theory and Dwarf Galaxies in the library—completely untouched. They're slightly less popular with my fellow inmates than the comic books.

Speaking of which, there are tons of children's books—even some of those Big Red Dog books Rachel likes so much—and a whole kid playroom here, too. So if you and Rachel ever wanted to visit, she'd have lots of stuff to read and play with.

Yeah, I know. . .wishful thinking.

Yours in contemplation of the universe,

-H

p.s. I'm sorry.

Cuddy-

How's the hospital? That one creepy anastheologist still hitting on you all the time? Dr. Singh still boinking Nurse Judy? Has anyone found the television remote in the nurse's lounge? (If it happens to be found in the bottom right drawer of my desk, under my stash of Goldfish crackers, that is just a coincidence. I swear I didn't take it.)

How's my boy Jimmy Wilson? You guys keeping each other out of trouble? Say hi to him for me, okay? In case you were wondering, he apparently hates my guts, too.

-H

p.s. I'm sorry.

Cuddy-

If you're trying to teach me a lesson, it's working. I'm actually freaking out right now. Are you never going to talk to me again, or what?

If I could turn back time, I'd do everything different. And not just the whole car/house/psychotic-episode thing.

I'd be a better boyfriend to you. A better father figure (or whatever I was) to Rachel. A better friend to Wilson. A better doctor. A better. . . everything.

God, nothing like spending 6 months in prison to give a man perspective on what a fucking mess he's made out of his life.

-H

p.s. Sooooo sorry.

Cuddy realized that she was crying. She put the letters back in the box and tried to get some sleep.

A few days later, she made her way to Wilson's office, closed the door behind her and sat.

Wilson looked up expectantly.

She sighed, steeled herself.

"How is he?" she said.

"How's who?" He knew, but he just wanted to make sure.

"Nurse Jeffrey," Cuddy cracked. "House, of course."

"He's fine."

"Fine?"

"What do you want me to say Cuddy? He's fine. He's . . .House. He's got his team and his puzzles and his bullet-proof sarcasm. Are you asking if he's consumed with regret? Are you asking if there's a giant Dean-of-Medicine-sized hole where his heart used to be? Yes and yes."

Cuddy looked at the floor, became fixated on a small scuff on the toe of her pump.

"He came to my mother's funeral you know," she said finally.

"No, I didn't know that," Wilson said. "For what it's worth, I told him not to go."

"It was okay. He laid low, in the back."

"Imagine that," Wilson mused. "Gregory House trying to be inconspicuous. . ."

"I wouldn't have even noticed him, except I seem to have some sort of ESP when it comes that man," Cuddy chuckled.

Wilson smiled at her.

"I sense him looking at me sometimes, too," she said. "When he thinks I don't know he's there."

"He misses you," Wilson said.

"Yeah," she said. She wet her thumb, tried to rub the scuff clean—but it was apparently a permanent part of her life. "I miss him, too."

"Well, he's right here. He's been here all along," Wilson said.

"I just don't know if I can . . . take the risk," Cuddy said.

"Risk what? That he's going to hurt you again? Or that you're going to fall in love with him again?"

"Both," Cuddy said.

#######

Two days later, House got home from work to find an envelope that had been slipped under his door.

He recognized the stationery and the handwriting right away. He felt a small chill go down his spine.

He didn't even take off his coat. Just ripped open the envelope and started to read.

Dear House-

So I lied about burning those letters. I didn't burn them. I kept them in a box in my attic. I finally read them last week. (Yes, all of them.)

And as I read them, and as they made me laugh and cry and want to throttle you all over again, I realized one thing: I miss you, House. Two years is a long time to go without talking to your best friend. . .

I've been so angry at you. So incredibly angry that we had this amazing friendship, this amazing love story (okay, one with a sad ending, but amazing all the same) and that you fucked everything up.

And I just don't how to reconcile these feelings: Missing you, being angry with you, being angry with myself for letting you in so deep . . .And where does Rachel fit into all of this?

Can I ever really let you around my child again? (Would you?)

But then you came to my mother's funeral. And it meant the world to me, House. Because the milestones in my life—even the shitty ones—just don't seem real without you there. You've been the primary witness to my life, in a strange sort of way. The person whose opinion always mattered the most, the person I've most wanted to impress, the person I was always the most drawn to.

I love you like I've never loved anyone else. And I hate you like I could never hate anyone else, too.

So all I know is this: No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to shake you. And somehow, some way, I'd like to find a way to have you back in my life.

I make no promises, House.

But maybe we can start by saying hello to each other in the hall.

-Cuddy

He read the letter over and over again—just standing there in the entranceway to his apartment. Finally, his leg buckled a bit beneath him. He slid slowly to floor. And he cried. Because he'd done a terrible thing. Because she hated him. Because she loved him. Because it was a start.