So it's me again with yet another post-series finale fic. My Huddy mojo died after I wrote 'All or Nothing' and I reconciled myself to the fact that it wasn't coming back, then after a convo with a friend (she knows who she is) it resurfaced and kicked me up the bum, making me scribble stuff down when I should be asleep.

'Finishing What You Started' is easily my favourite Huddy fic that I've written. It was really cathartic to write at the time too, but here I wanted to take a completely different approach to House and Cuddy post-series after all the crap that happened in Season 7 and 8. There will be a couple of similarities plot-wise that I see as inevitable, but, on the whole, this is an entirely new take. Obviously, because I'm writing it and because they're them, there will be a healthy dose of angst as well. You have been warned. ;)

Be really interested to know what you guys think. :)

Shore owns them etc.

Flopping down onto his sofa exhaustedly, House adjusted the lumpy cushion behind him and grabbed the bottle of beer he'd just set down on the coffee table in, absent-mindedly surveying the brunette and the red-headed woman raucously laughing together over a cup of coffee on his TV. In truth, he was glad to be home. Bringing the drink to his lips, he glanced around at the open plan space he'd been renting for the past eleven months since his second visit to prison, and sighed. There was no getting around the fact it was a mess. Dirty dishes lined the sink in the kitchen adjacent to where he was sat, his bed was still unmade from the morning, the covers ruffled into one large lump at the end of the mattress a few feet behind him after he'd slept through his alarm and woken up to find he was already twenty minutes for his job at the University library; meanwhile books he'd leafed through were stacked high on top of the second-hand piano he'd bought and squeezed into the corner of the living area.

In short, he had two options: finally get around to employing a maid to clean for him, or risk eventually being suffocated under a pile of his own junk. Resolving to make calls the following day, he lifted his leg and rested his heel on the edge of the table, just as he heard feet shuffling on the carpet outside his apartment door and then a sustained knock. Rolling his eyes, House was determined to ignore it. It'd either be someone selling something he couldn't possibly want, or, more likely, the old lady who lived along the hall had forgotten where she lived again. Again there was tapping on the wood. Realising Gertie, or whatever the hell her name was, wouldn't go away until he escorted her back to her own apartment, he awkwardly hauled himself to his feet and padded irritably over to the door, swinging it open exuberantly only to find a familiar man in his mid-thirties staring back at him eagerly.

"I told the agency I wanted a brunette," House cracked, smirking at his equally bemused, former employee. It wasn't the first time he'd seen Chase since he'd been let out. A couple of times they'd bumped into each other in bars in Princeton and briefly exchanged their own special brand of 'pleasantries', but a home visit after dark was something that was certainly new.

"Can I come in?"

Moving aside House allowed the younger man to step over the threshold, before closing the door behind him.

"I'd apologise for the mess, but I'm not actually bothered if it bothers you."

Silently Chase looked over the piles of books, clothes and crockery dotted around the apartment, and frowned.

"It reminds me of my place," he commented in his Australian drawl, almost to himself.

"With great responsibility comes a lack of domestic hygiene. We should go halves on a maid… You want a beer?"

"Can't. I'm working."

Perching on the arm of the sofa, House grabbed his beer again and eyed the man in front of him suspiciously. This whole out-of-the-blue visit was intriguing to say the least.

"So if this isn't a social call, then what?"

Folding his arms across his chest, the corner of Chase's mouth curved upwards into a mirthful smile, his eyes shining conspiratorially in way that jolted his former boss' mind back to the long-haired, young doctor, who'd turned up in his office thirteen years earlier, wet behind the gills but eager to prove himself . He'd always led him to believe that he'd got the job because his Father had made the call. As the puppet master this half-truth served the purpose of keeping his employee on his toes, of driving him to push himself to go the extra mile, but if House was honest with himself he'd seen the seed of something brilliant there when he'd interviewed him, regardless of the nepotism that was at play. Something that he, and the complications in the younger man's life, had nurtured over the ensuing decade. When he'd found out that Foreman had appointed Chase as the new Head of the Diagnostics department he'd felt a quiet, almost paternal pride in the achievement. Not that he'd ever dream of telling him that though.

"I have a proposition."

"I'm really sorry," House chirped back sarcastically, pausing to take another swig. "I've sworn off other men since Wilson and I went all Brokeback Mountain after the whole faking my own death thing."

"I need your advice on a case."

"So Luke is asking Darth Vader for help?"

The current Head of the Diagnostics department at PPTH smiled at the former, amused by the analogy.

"How about it?"

Silently House pondered the offer, and rubbed his aching thigh with his free hand.

"Where's the file?"

"At the hospital." Nervously the handsome, thirty-five year old squirmed around on the spot, nevertheless holding the older man's gaze. "You'd have to come in with me."

"Now?"

"Now," Chase confirmed, nodding his head. Across the way from him House momentarily considered the offer and then shook his head. Sure, he was intrigued by the possibility of letting his brain engage with something that wasn't as monotonous as cataloguing an endless array of antiquated books, but he was in no hurry to show his face there. Diagnostics, medicine, the hospital and everything else associated with it were in his past now. He'd come to terms with that after finally losing his last real tie to his former life: Wilson.

"No can do. I'm busy."

"Doing what?" he shot back, eyeballing the bickering women on the flickering television screen. "Getting drunk and watching re-runs of Desperate Housewives?"

"Women's beach volleyball is on later. I'm a big fan."

Evidently irritated by House's stubbornness to comply, Chase squared his jaw and let the air filter out of his lungs like a petulant child.

"Aren't you the tiniest bit curious about the case? Or is this pretending to be coy thing down to you actually being scared you've lost your touch?"

An awkward atmosphere filled the room, House's eyes falling to the floor as his thumb nail dug into the label on the bottle and scratched the glass underneath. Soon setting the half-drunk beer back down on the coffee table, he got to his feet and took a step forward; all the while regarding his former protégé confrontationally. For a split second Chase genuinely thought he was in danger of being punched, after all it wouldn't be the first time they'd come to blows, and then, just as quickly, his fear was allayed when a broad grin broke out across House's face.

"I'll get my coat, Skippy."

Noticing Chase becoming increasingly jittery and subdued as they walked into the foyer of the hospital and straight into the clinic, in turn House was becoming more and more puzzled by their apparent trajectory towards the Dean's office as he lumbered behind him, his head bowed down to avoid eye contact with any of the few staff who were still milling around that might remember him. He'd assumed that they'd sneak in, look over the file, he'd offer his advice and then go back home without much fanfare. Evidently that wasn't going to happen. Like the wannabe dictator he was, Foreman probably wanted to read him the riot act and forewarn him about what was and wasn't acceptable in his hospital.

Stepping into the office, he swore he saw the younger man gulp as he held the door open for him, apparent fear fleeting across his eyes. Before he had chance to question why he looked so pensive, Chase turned on his heel and practically ran from the office and back through the clinic, as if he was evading an imminent explosion. It wasn't until House turned back to look into the dimly lit room that he knew why, his jaw unconsciously slackening as he saw an all too recognisable silhouette standing by the windows with her back to him at the opposite side of the room. After tense moments of trying and failing to co-ordinate his brain and his vocal chords, he eventually found his voice.

"It's like I fell down a rabbit hole and travelled back in time ten years… You do know you don't work here anymore, right?"

"And we both know why that is," Cuddy replied coolly, still looking through the blinds and watching the leaves on the ground blow in the wind.

Sensing the thinly veiled anger in her response, any curiosity as to why he'd been brought there quickly evaporated. He'd daydreamed about seeing her again on so many occasions. Sometimes she slapped him, sometimes she simply cried, and other times he was the one who broke down, but now that it was actually happening, he wanted out. Being this close to her again was too much. He'd screwed up too badly for any of this to end well, and that was presuming she was able to restrain herself enough not to resort to violence.

"Whatever your plan is to torture me, I'm not sticking around to find out."

Just as he was about to turn away, she span around to face him, the animosity in her insanely blue eyes gluing him to the spot unexpectedly. Somehow she looked exactly the same and yet different. Sure she'd aged a little, it had been over six years since he'd last seen her, but this was something else. Something in the way she regarded him; a level of guardedness he'd never encountered before.

"Sit down, House," she requested bluntly, gesturing towards the chair at the conference table nearest to her. Unwilling to comply, he stood his ground.

"You've got an indefinite restraining order against me. I have no plans to go back to prison."

Holding his gaze, Cuddy took a step forward and tucked her hand into the pockets of her jeans, momentarily biting down on her lip apprehensively and finally showing a chink in her armour. For that brief second of vulnerability he couldn't help, but see how beautiful she still was. Disarmingly so.

"I had it dismissed."

"When?"

"Today."

"But that usually takes months," he rebuked dismissively. It was something he'd found out during his first stay in prison, after quizzing another inmate who'd been incarcerated after embezzling money from the law firm he'd worked for. The process was long, tedious and something that he naturally assumed Cuddy would never want to consider going through after what he'd done, therefore what she said didn't quite add up.

Torturously slowly his ex-girlfriend rounded the chair in front of her and sat down in it, crossing one leg over the other before responding.

"Unlike you I have friends."

Unable to bear the tension any longer, House was determined to get out there. His leg was beginning to throb and it was starting to feel like he was drowning in a pit of his own past mistakes, the physical reminder right in front of him making it all too painful and vivid to deal with.

"Well, as touching as this reunion was, I'm still leaving."

"I said, sit the fuck down!" Cuddy barked back loudly, the volume of her order making him visibly start.

Gingerly he complied, picking the chair furthest away from her as a token gesture, in case she'd lied to him and this was some kind of rouse to get him sent back to jail after all. Even if a small part of him refused to believe that the woman he'd known for most of his adult life would be that cruel, the truth was that they were in unchartered territory. The Cuddy he'd known as his boss, friend and then lover seemed like a distant memory: now they might as well be strangers. With bile rising in the back of his throat, he lowered himself onto the edge of the seat and hooked his cane onto the table.

"So what's this about?" he enquired glibly. "Your therapist thought it would be a good idea to come face to face with the jerk, who drove a car into your home?... Or have you just decided to get one of your former minions to bring me here so you can go all 'Misery' on my ass?"

Ignoring his tone, she collected herself and then began to explain the situation, rubbing a weary hand over her tired eyes. As much as he'd probably try to piss her off, she wasn't going to rise to the bait.

"My nephew was brought in as a patient here yesterday evening, and we still don't know what's wrong… He's deteriorating rapidly."

"Then I suggest you talk to the pretty, blonde girl, who dropped me off here."

"Chase and his team have been working non-stop on the case for the past 24 hours, and they're still no closer to figuring out what's going on." Agitatedly, she drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair and lowered her head to focus on the carpet. "It was his idea to bring in a fresh pair of eyes."

"But I'm not a doctor anymore."

"You'd be working with him as a consultant with no actual contact with the patient," she clarified. "Once upon a time this would have been your dream case."

At her reference to their shared past, House felt a stab of sadness and countered it by glancing around the room, distracting himself with the predictably drab and expensive revamp the current Dean had opted for yet again: more taupe, more esoteric paintings and small sculptures that were meant to demonstrate dependability, but actually came across as pretentious.

"What does Foreman have to say about Chase sub-contracting a consultant?"

"He's co-operative, as long as you don't destroy any hospital equipment and he doesn't have to pay for any help you offer."

In spite of himself, House actually laughed. It sounded exactly like the type of thing Foreman would say. In fact she'd probably quoted him word for word. Not amused by his mirth, Cuddy glared at him disapprovingly.

"And you and your sister are happy to go along with this?"

"To be frank, the thought of having you in the same building as us makes our skin crawl, but funnily enough we're prepared to do anything to make him better."

"And I'm supposed to do this out of the goodness of my heart?" he retorted, equally as pragmatically, reaching out to his cane and ponderously running his fingertips along the handle.

Instantly Cuddy snorted.

"Oh I know you don't have an altruistic bone in your body, believe me!" Eyeing him with evident disdain, she continued. "I'll make sure you're more than adequately financially compensated for your time."

Watching as she re-folded her arms across herself, something shiny contrasting against the black wool of her sweater caught his eye, and immediately made his stomach sank. Incapable of leaving it well alone, his natural response was to bring it up.

"Well, you could just pawn the massive rock on your finger." He stalled to watch her reaction, the tiniest hint of a suppressed gasp hanging in the air between them, before she quickly recovered and re-donned her poker face. "So who's the lucky guy? Gatsby?"

"My marriage and any other aspect of my personal life are none of your business." she replied measuredly. "In fact, after tonight, there's no reason why we should have to speak to each other again… If you choose to take up the offer, you can liase with us through Chase."

"And what if I don't want to?"

Cuddy shrugged casually.

"Then you can crawl back under whatever rock you came out from, and I'll find someone else who's not a violent junkie to solve the case... This hospital isn't the only one with a diagnostic department anymore."

Rendered momentarily dumb by her readiness to admit he was merely a possible solution to a problem, and one of many at that, he found himself wanting to personalize the conversation. He wanted to matter to her again, as ridiculous a notion as he consciously knew that was, and not just for his expertise.

"FYI I've been clean for two and a half years."

"FYI I couldn't care less if you've undergone gender reassignment, found God and joined a convent," his ex threw back without missing a beat, pushing herself forward in her seat to emphasise her point. "Are you going to do this, or not? I need to know now, in case I have to make other arrangements."

Realising he wasn't getting anywhere trying to initiate small talk, House threw his neck back and looked skywards, pursing his lips as he mulled over what to do. The easiest thing in the World would be to walk out of the door and not look back; to pretend that the whole incident hadn't happened, and go on with his stable, but bland existence. From his perspective that was the sensible thing to his tongue in his cheek, he looked back at her and saw her waiting impatiently for an answer, deep, dark circles under her eyes indicative of how worried and worn out she really was. How exactly was he supposed to say no?

"I told Chase I'd help, and I'm not going to turn down the money."

"Good," she responded abruptly, getting up, striding across the room to Foreman's desk and picking up a file, and then throwing it unceremoniously onto the desk in front of him. "You can start going over this now."

With that she blistered out of the room, grasping her handbag from the beneath the coat stand and apparently walking out of his life again without so much as a backwards glance over her shoulder. The door slammed behind her as she exited into the clinic like he'd seen her do hundreds of times before, except this was different. The woman who'd cared enough about him to save his ass on numerous occasions, personally and professionally, was gone. He'd known she'd find somebody else, somebody less damaged, less difficult, she had too much going for her not to, but the actual confirmation of that felt like a blow to the gut. While he didn't know for sure, subconsciously he'd been able to harbour a miniscule amount of hope that one day they could have some sort of reconciliation. In spite of everything that had happened between them, he'd wanted to believe what they'd had had been special to her, and not the prelude to something better and more permanent.

Clearly he'd been wrong.

With a sigh, he opened the file and tried to divert his attention to the matter in hand. Maybe if he could help solve the case, at least she'd hate him a little less.

Minutes later Cuddy breathlessly pushed her way into a deserted bathroom at the far end of the hospital, her legs threatening to collapse beneath her if she didn't sit down. Artlessly weaving her way into one of the cubicles, she flipped down the lid on the toilet and perched on top of it, craning herself forward and attempting to regulate her breathing, the lack of air reaching her lungs making her head spin, as the walls seemed to close in on her. All because of him.

She'd imagined seeing him again so many, many times, practiced in her mind the things she'd say to him, the disgust she'd show if/when they finally came face to face, but she hadn't anticipated feeling like this. In fact she'd rarely considered how she'd feel at all. Every creation of it in her mind was about how she'd make him feel; how small, how sorry, how pathetic. And yet she was the one holed up in a toilet cubicle, fighting for her breath and shaking like a leaf.

She'd never expected him to seem so normal, so much like the man she'd fallen in love with once, instead of the monster he'd morphed into in her head; the one that had tricked her into believing he was something he wasn't: a man who, in spite of his shortcomings, could be kind, funny and even gentle. It was too confusing for her to comprehend, so she chose not to. There were other things for her to worry about. Julia needed her right now and she couldn't let her down if things came to the worst. As a doctor, House was capable of amazing things if he put his mind to it, nevertheless he wasn't a miracle-worker. If Chase, who'd become an exceptional diagnostician under the instruction of his predecessor, couldn't find a swift answer as to why her ten year old nephew had fallen ill, there was a good chance he couldn't either. She had to stay strong. Too many people relied on her not falling apart. She had to.

Eventually her breathing slowed to a normal pace, her chest rising and falling regularly as she stared at the diamond ring on her finger, the thumb of her other hand easily spinning it around and betraying the amount of weight she'd lost since it was first placed there. It seemed like a lifetime ago now, and her time at PPTH one further still: so much had changed, and yet strangely so much had stayed the same.

Unhooking her necklace from behind her hair, she removed the ring and threaded it on, placing it back around her neck and tucking it under her sweater, before leaving the cubicle and heading over to the sink, her hand fumbling in her bag as she detachedly regarded her own reflection in the mirror and saw that she looked just as tired and worried as she felt. Finally clasping the cylindrical bottle from amongst her keys and purse, she popped the lid and poured a small white pill into her hand, then turned on the tap and swallowed it down with the water she cupped in her palm, wincing a little at the slightly bitter aftertaste. Slowly she closed her eyes and braced her hands either side of the sink.

"Everything's going to be ok."