A/N: I watched the series finale about a week ago, and my room mate and I got to talking about what Cuddy would have said to him: this is what I came up with. Kind of short, but those sequences weren't exactly lengthy, and I think I covered all the basis, more or less.

Update: I'm going to start posting my next multi-chaptered fic on March 11th, so be on the look out for that!

The fire was cackling in the room beneath him. He could see the flames coming towards him, the heat in the desolate abandoned building intensifying with each passing moment. He moved his foot, bracing himself to stand up, but then he paused; he questioned himself, because he realized that he had two options—and one of them was most certainly easier than the other.

And he was always one for the easy way out.

He settled back into the corner, his back relaxing into the wall as he watched the flames devour pieces of broken wood. He knew he still had time, he knew he still had a chance—but for some reason he couldn't move.

He wouldn't move.

He gripped his leg with his hand, rubbing it in attempts to alleviate some of the pain. While his hand worked away at the fragmented muscle, he realized that soon, the pain might all disappear.

He would be dead, but he would be pain free—and somehow that brought him comfort. Because he wasn't just trying to escape the physical pain, because that wasn't all there was. If it was just physical, he could manage it, he could even try to control it. He could mask it with drugs and sarcasm; keep everyone at arms length to protect himself.

But he couldn't protect himself from this type of pain.

Nobody was immune to life; he was foolish to think he was the exception.

So he continued to sit. Watching, waiting. Waiting for the flames to come closer, waiting for the miserable journey he'd been on for the past twenty years to be over. But nothing happened. It was as if he was at a stand still, and the God he didn't believe in was telling him to get out, to leave, to save himself.

And maybe it was out of spite, or cowardice, or worse, weakness, but he didn't move.

That's when he saw her.

She was standing in front of him, towering over him in her impossibly high heels with her arms folded across her chest. Her eyebrows were raised and her lips were pursed, and he swore she never looked so beautiful—even if she was just a hallucination.

The rational part of his brain knew that she was a figment of imagination; that it was impossible for Lisa Cuddy to be standing in front of him. But he missed her voice and the way she bit down on her bottom lip when she was nervous, so he didn't send her away.

But he was curious.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, slightly lifting his head up towards her.

Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and she glared at him with an intensity that was terrifying and heartbreaking at the same time. Her eyes were cold and full of longing. She was angry but aloof, uninterested yet unable to stay away.

She was caught in a web that she had tangled for herself.

Cuddy scoffed and sat down in front of him, tucking her legs underneath her as she lounged provocatively in front of him. He smirked; even in hallucination form she was taunting him.

"You didn't think I was going to let you die without clearing a few things up first, did you?" He gave her a skeptical look, and she paused, sitting straight up. "I'm not here to talk you out of this, House. It's your life, do what you want with it. I no longer hold the burden of being responsible for you."

"If you're here to lecture me, I'm not interested. Exit is that way."

He pointed to the stairway across the room that had yet to be destroyed—another sign, perhaps. Cuddy let out a slight laugh, relishing in the situation he had gotten himself in to. He'd mapped out his escape route, yet did nothing about it. He had a plan, but he refused to put it into action—she didn't know why she expected anything else.

He sat there, watching her tilt her head back as she laughed in a manner that suggested she was clearly irritated with his choice; she may not be here to talk him out of anything, but she was sure as hell going to make her opinion known.

"I don't want to talk about your patient," she stated, fixing her gaze on him. "I'm here because you owe me."

House paused, furrowing his brow at her. "You're her for clarity?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. "You what? Want an explanation, want me to beg for your forgiveness?" He rolled his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. "I can't give you either one of those," he muttered.

"You're afraid to own up to what you did," she hissed. "You were a coward then and you're a coward now. Why are you still sitting here? Why aren't you moving? You could have been out of here five minutes ago, but you're so intent on being miserable, so addicted to the pain of living that you hole yourself away from anyone who even attempts to help you. You're hiding, House."

House sat up, inching towards her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the flames moving closer, but he had yet to feel them.

They still had time.

"I spent over a year in jail," he growled, "pretty sure that constitutes as owning up to my actions."

Cuddy rolled her eyes and uncrossed her legs.

"You think that absolves you? You think that because you faced the legal ramifications and willingly condemned yourself that you wouldn't have to face the personal ones?"

"No," he stated, "I think the restraining order you put out against me took care of that little problem. What are you really doing here? Why are you so curious all of a sudden?"

"You don't think you deserve to live," she said, furrowing her brow. She ignored his other questions; this wasn't about what he wanted to know. "You think that if you make the ultimate sacrifice that you'll have somehow paid your debt to society. But you're no martyr, House. Killing yourself isn't going to save anyone."

"You got any better ideas?" he asked, "because from where I'm sitting, it looks like the best option." He saw her roll her eyes, and he paused, his head hanging low as he ran a hand through his hair. "You wouldn't understand," he added.

Cuddy scoffed.

"You think I don't know what it's like to feel pain? That these last two years have been easy for me? You're not the only one who lost something that day."

House sat up, watching as the tears finally started to well in her eyes. She was breaking down in front of him, and for a moment he felt a pang of guilt—because it had been exactly what he had wished for.

He didn't want her to suffer; but he did want to know that she still cared.

"You were a part of my life for twenty years," she said, taking a deep breath. "And I know we had our ups and downs, but I could always count on you to be there. Until the day that you couldn't. And for the life of me I still can't understand why."

House shook his head and moved closer to her. The flames were getting closer, and the sweat was starting to drip down form his forehead; they didn't have much time left.

"I thought I was losing you," he mumbled, his eyes glued to the ground below him. "I didn't want to know what that felt like."

"But your fear is what caused you to lose me in the first place," she argued. "And then you turned into a jealous, self-destructive, vicodin induced shell of the man I thought I knew, refusing to let me in. You married that…girl in a passive aggressive attempt to get back at me. You were cruel, House."

House rolled his eyes. Of course this was all about her.

"I get it," he said, "you hate me. You can go now," he said dismissively.

He looked up at her. She was looking at him with those eyes again. Her tear stricken face was pleading with him, hoping that he would understand. It was pity and love and hatred all rolled into one cursing, gut wrenching emotion.

Cuddy narrowed her eyes at him as he failed to understand the point she was trying to make.

"I don't hate you," she said, sighing as she struggled to get the words out. House glanced up at her, the blunt admission sparking a memory that he often clung to in times of despair.

Because she may not love him anymore, but she had loved him then—and even in the darkest, loneliest corner of the world, that gave him a sense of hope.

"I wake up most days and think about all the pain you've caused me," she continued, taking a pause here and there, "and sometimes I hate you, but it doesn't last long. Some days I even miss you."

She let out a slight laugh, as if even she couldn't believe the words that were spilling out of her mouth.

"But not a day goes by that I don't love you," she admitted.

Her face softened, and his lips went dry. And suddenly he could feel the flames coming closer to him, the heat intensifying to a point that it was almost unbearable. He had the sudden urge to move his leg, but he couldn't.

But it wasn't like before; before he didn't want to leave, he didn't want to escape. He was stuck. His mind was screaming at him to leave, but leaving meant leaving her for good, and a part of him wasn't ready to do that—so he continued to sit.

"But you're gone," he said. "And I have a feeling you're not coming back, so it doesn't matter. You came here to tell me that you love me, but you and I both know that you're not going to do anything about it. You're too proud, too humiliated by what happened to forgive me."

Cuddy shook her head. He still didn't get it.

"This isn't about me forgiving you, House. Because I'm not sure I ever will. This isn't about us, it isn't even about me."

House groaned, looking at her angrily as he scooted closer to her, dodging pieces of broken wood as he moved. He still couldn't stand up, but being so far away from her was no longer an option.

He needed to look at her, study her; he needed to try and decipher her motives.

"You always could read me like a book," she said, giving him a smile as she leaned towards him. "What happened, House?"

"I don't know," he whispered, his head hanging low, "I don't know why I treated you the way that I did. You didn't deserve that."

He looked up at her, and his leg started to tingle, giving him a little agility. She was inches away from him, sitting there with her legs tucked underneath her, her perfect posture towering over him as he propped himself up on his elbows.

She was above him.

She had always been above him.

But the thing he didn't realize, the thing she kept hidden in the deepest, darkest, corner of her heart, was that she always thought he was a little bit above her, too.

"We weren't bad for each other, House," she said, shaking her head down at him. He looked up at her in disbelief, his lips parting in a questioning manner. She softened her eyes at him. "What we tried to be was bad for us. You and I stopped being you and I when we were trying to be us."

"So you're saying it was all a mistake?"

He looked over to the side; the flames were growing nearer.

"No," she said softly, "we weren't a mistake. We were…passionate and terrifying and consuming, and most days I couldn't tell if I wanted to strangle you or curl up into your chest and never let you go."

"I didn't want to let you go," he said. Dust was starting to gather around him and he coughed, barely able to get the words out. "I never wanted…" he paused, clenching his fist out of frustration. "I'm sorry," he finally said.

He lifted his eyes up, meeting her gaze. She smiled at him.

"It's good that you're sorry," she said, raising her eyebrows at him. "But I didn't come here for an apology. I'm here because I want you to realize something."

He gave her a questioning look. Cuddy looked around, watching as the wall next to her slowly became engulfed by flames; she didn't have much time left.

"I want you to realize that there is more to you than misery." Her voice became firm as she spoke. "Your actions have consequences, House. Even when that action is inaction, or worse, destruction for the sake of destruction."

Echoes of her past words stung him, the paralyzing memories flooding his mind as the flames grew closer.

Why do you need to negate everything?

You don't care about me. I deserve someone who does.

Everything you've ever done is to avoid pain.

Pain happens when you care. You can't love someone without making yourself open to their problems, their fears. And you're not willing to do that.

"If you stay here, you will die," she said. "What about the people you're leaving behind?"

"Wilson doesn't have much time left," he muttered.

Cuddy shook her head in a disappointed manner. "A lot can happen in the span of five months," she said, giving him a knowing look. "You and I both know that."

House looked up at her. "You don't want me to die?" he asked, a look of disbelief on his face.

"I want you to not be afraid to live."

Suddenly the air started to constrict, and the dust around him started to collect, and he finally felt the flames upon him. He looked over at her; she was moving away from him, as if she were preparing to leave. She gave him a comforting look and leaned toward him, running her hand over his cheek in a way that was all too familiar.

He closed his eyes, relishing in her touch.

Her mouth was moving but he couldn't hear what she was saying, and he fluttered his eyes open, catching her gaze one last time. The feeling in his leg returned, and he reached out to touch her, but he felt nothing.

He realized she was gone when his feet were firmly pressed against the ground.

He spotted the doorway across the hall and he limped towards it. He collapsed to the ground once he was outside, the cool pavement calming his burning skin.

And he silently thanked her, because even though he didn't deserve it, he knew she would always be around to save him.

A/N: I really hope you guys enjoyed this. I know it ends on a slightly melancholy note, but I've already done the story where he and Cuddy reunite, so I didn't think it was really necessary to repeat myself :D

Reviews are always appreciated!