"Dr. Cuddy, is the man who crashed his car into your house in the courtroom?"

"Yes, he is."

"Can you point to him?"

"I can."

"Your honor, let the record show that the witness is pointing to the defendant, Dr. Gregory House."

"Dr. Cuddy, what was Dr. House's state of mind when he crashed into your home?"

"Objection!" House's lawyer popped up. "The witness is not a mind reader. She doesn't know what my client's state of mind was."

"My witness knows Dr. House, perhaps better than anybody. All I'm asking is for her to give an honest assessment of his mood."

"I'll allow it," the judge said. "But tread carefully."

"Dr. Cuddy?"

"He was unnervingly calm," Cuddy said. "If anything, he seemed happy—proud of himself."

"The defendant is claiming temporary insanity. Did he seem insane to you?"

"Objection! The witness is not a psychiatrist."

"Sustained," the judge said quickly. "Brennan, I told you to tread carefully."

"Sorry. Let me rephrase the question. Did his behavior give any indication of why he crashed into your home?"

"Objection!"

But before the judge could rule, Cuddy looked House squarely in the eyes:

"I believe Dr. House crashed into my home because he was trying to kill me," she said.

#######

House was sentenced to 7 years in prison for attempted vehicular manslaughter, reckless endangerment, and forging fake prescriptions. On good behavior, he was told he could be out in 3 years. Cuddy wasn't too worried about that. Good behavior wasn't one of House's strongpoints.

But Wilson, who had remained friends with House despite it all—his anger was somewhat tempered when House testified that Wilson knew nothing of the forged vicodin prescriptions—told Cuddy that House was the model prisoner. He kept to himself. He followed the rules. He even volunteered at the hospital clinic.

"He volunteers at the clinic?"

Cuddy was not so blinded by her anger at House that she didn't find this at least a little bit funny. "If I'd known that all it would take to get him to do clinic hours was a little vehicular manslaughter, I would've had him try to kill me sooner."

Wilson wasn't amused by her joke.

"You know he didn't try to kill you, Cuddy."

"Oh, I know that, do I? How? Because he told you so?"

"No, because he loves you."

"Yeah, like OJ loved Nicole," she muttered.

#######

His prison uniform was a drab gray, not orange, as she'd envisioned. But he was, satisfyingly, led out in cuffs. He also seemed completely stunned to see her. His face went ashen.

He looked the same, more or less. A little skinnier. A little more haggard. His limp a little more severe. But besides that, House.

He sat down tentatively across the table from her.

"When they told me I had a visitor I thought it was Wilson," he admitted.

"I needed to see you for myself. My therapist told me not to come, but I knew it would be cathartic."

"You're in therapy?"

"Yeah. For anxiety, depression. You know, the normal stuff that happens to a girl when her crazed ex lover tries to kill her."

"I didn't try to kill you, Cuddy—not intentionally, at least. You know that."

"Whatever," Cuddy said. "That's not why I'm here."

"Why are you here?"

"Wilson tells me you'll be out in a month. So I just want to lay some ground rules. You need to stay away from me and Rachel."

"Of course," House said.

"No, I mean it. I want you leave town."

"I can't. Not for a year at least. I'll be on parole."

Shit. She hadn't thought of that.

"Okay, then just stay away. Don't come near my hospital, don't come near my house, don't go near my gym, my coffee shop, my dry cleaner, my grocery store. I don't want to have to put out a restraining order, but I will."

"I understand," he said sadly. "Cuddy. . .words can't express how sorry I am. You know that right?"

"I don't want to hear it, House."

"I know you don't," he said. "I still want to apologize. I'll apologize to you every day for the rest of my life, if you'll let me. . ."

He leaned forward a bit in his chair, as if he was about to touch her hand. Cuddy, reflexively, flinched.

House took note of her fear of him, sighed, backed away.

"Did you get my letters?" he asked finally.

"I got them all. And I promptly threw them out."

"Oh." He looked at his feet. "And Rachel? What have you told her?"

"I told her you were dead."

This news seemed to truly rattle him.

"You told her I was dead?"

"What was I supposed to tell her? That the man she loved like a father destroyed her house and tried to kill her mommy?"

House put his face in his hands and stayed that way for an uncomfortably long time. His shoulders lightly shook. He was clearly crying, but he was trying to cover it up. Finally, he inhaled. Opened his eyes, blinked at her.

"I guess I deserve that," he said.

"You deserve that and much worse," she said coldly.

She stood up, motioned to the guard.

"Remember, stay away" she said pointedly. And left.

######

"How'd it go?" Wilson asked. "Did it give you the closure you were hoping for?"

"I made him cry," Cuddy said with a shrug. "So that was nice."

Wilson shook his head. "That's not like you, Cuddy."

"What is like me, Wilson? You tell me. I don't know anymore."

"You're a good person," he said gently.

"And bad things happen to good people, right?"

"Yes, sometimes they do."

"Well, fuck House. He deserves to cry and he deserves a whole lot worse. Frankly, I'm amazed he could cry at all. He seemed highly medicated. What do they have him on? Lithium? Something stronger?"

"No, he's not on anything," Wilson said. "No anti-depressants. No vicodin. Not even aspirin. He wants to suffer, Cuddy."

"And that's supposed to make me feel sorry for him?"

"He's not doing it to impress you. It's how he feels, Cuddy. He hates himself."

"He always hated himself."

"Suffice it to say, it used to be more of a love/hate relationship."

"Well good. I hope he hates himself. And I hope he's in pain. I'm sorry if that's not something a good person should say, but it's just how I feel."

######

A few weeks after House got out of prison, she got a call from Doug Westing, an old colleague of hers, who ran a cancer research lab in Newark.

"I'm calling because Greg House applied for a job at the lab," Westing said. "He can't practice medicine anymore, as you know. But he'd be a great fit in the lab. He could really do some good here."

"Why are you telling me this?" Cuddy said.

"Because we all know what he did to you. Just say the word and we won't hire him."

Cuddy hesitated.

"That's ridiculous Doug. Of course you should hire him."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

That night, she had the usual dream. House crashed into Rachel's bedroom. Rachel flew out of her crib—in the dream, it was always a crib, although in real life, Rachel had moved to a "big girl bed" last year—and was careening toward the car's windshield. But before she could crash through, Cuddy always woke up, out of breath, sometimes screaming.

It was 11:30 at night, but she called Doug Westing at home.

"I changed my mind, if it's not too late," she said. "Don't hire Gregory House."

"It's no too late," Westing said. "And I totally understand."

######

He was persona non grata in the medical community and couldn't get a job anywhere. Cuddy took some satisfaction in that. At least she had friends.

Because of his leg, he couldn't do the kind of manual labor jobs that a lot of ex-cons got—construction, maintenance, landscaping. And because his felony involved a vehicle, he couldn't even get a job driving a taxi or a truck.

He finally got work at a seedy little diner on the bad side of town, flipping burgers.

Dr. Gregory House, genius diagnostician, was now a short order cook.

#######

It started with a stomach ache. Then there was a fever. Then a rash. At first, Cuddy thought it was the flu, then she feared it was meningitis. But Rachel kept getting worse.

After a week, she had to hospitalize her.

They began doing tests for scary things like lupus, Crohn's, juvenile diabetes. Then even scarier things like leukemia and lymphoma. All negative.

Cuddy had never been so terrified in her life. To see her little girl—her happy-go-lucky little girl—lying in a hospital bed, pale and weak, it was almost more than she could bear.

She felt like she was being tested, but she didn't know why.

It was Foreman who came into her office and said what everyone was thinking, "You need to call House."

"I can't, Eric…I can't."

"Well, do you mind if I do? We're running out of answers and we're running out of time."

The words "running out time" were enough to jar her from her stubbornness.

"I'll ask him myself," she said.

She arrived at the Starbright Diner that night at 11 pm.

She sat at the counter.

"What'll it be, hon?"

"I'll take a cup of coffee and I need to talk to Dr.—to House."

"You mean Greg?" the waitress said. "The cook?"

"Yes," Cuddy said.

"He's kind of busy back there. . but I'll see if I can grab him. Whatdya say your name was again?"

Before she could answer, House emerged from the swinging doors of the kitchen, wiping his hands with a rag.

"Her name is Cuddy," he said. He was wearing a gray flannel newsboy cap, a white t-shirt, and a white apron, splattered with grease. "Dr. Lisa Cuddy."

"Can we talk?" she asked.

"What are you doing here, Cuddy? I thought we were staying away from each other, right? Wasn't that the plan?"

"I need your help. . .with a diagnosis."

Cuddy had Rachel's file in her hand, which she shoved at him roughly.

"You know I don't do that anymore," he said, handing it back.

"I know. . .it's Rachel."

"Rachel?"

He took the file back anxiously, opened it, scanned it.

"I assume they've tested for toxins in your home," he said evenly.

"She's gotten worse since she got to the hospital," Cuddy said.

"And hereditary factors? Have you looked at the birthmother's patient file?"

"Of course."

The waitress was looking at House peculiarly: "Wait? You're a doctor."

"Used to be," House said. "Another life."

At a table, a guy complaining to his waitress overheard: "Well, in this life, you're a cook. Where's my omelet?"

House glanced nervously at him.

"Cuddy, my shift ends at 1 am. Leave the file with me and I'll read it more closely when I get off, okay?"

She nodded. Blinked away a tear.

"Thanks House."

He must've been up all night pouring over the file, because he called her at 5:23 a.m.

"Was Rachel's birthmother ever tested for Hastings Disease?"

"Hastings? No, I don't think so."

"Test Rachel," House said. "And call me back."

She rushed to the hospital. They tested Rachel and, of course, he was right. A rare strain of the syndrome was passed from the mother to the fetus and had laid dormant in her little girl for 5 years.

It was serious, but treatable with a course of steroids, and Rachel was going to be okay.

A wave of gratitude and relief washed over her.

She called him back several hours later, once the diagnosis was confirmed. He answered his cell after 5 rings. In the background, she could hear voices, laughter, the clattering of pots and pans— the din of a busy restaurant.

"You were right. It was Hastings," she said.

He sighed.

"Thank God," he said. She had never heard him reference God in anything other than a mocking voice.

"House, I . . .I don't know how to thank you."

"Forget about it."

He hung up.

Six nights later, she went to the diner to thank him in person. But it was his night off. The waitress from the other night gave her House's address.

It was a neighborhood Cuddy didn't set foot in very often—a rougher part of town.

She climbed the stairs to the fifth floor. The hall smelled of cooking food—something involving curry and rice—and a baby was screaming. She knew immediately which was his apartment, because she could hear jazz music blaring through the speakers.

She stood in front of his door for what felt like an eternity. Finally, she mustered up the nerve to knock. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest.

He was wearing jeans and a familiar blue Oxford shirt, which now hung on him a little too loosely. He still looked skinny, bordering on gaunt. He badly needed a haircut.

"How did you find me?" he said.

"That waitress, from the Starbright."

"So. . .have you come to see how the other half lives?"

Over his shoulder, she could see into the studio apartment. Very spartan. A couch bed, a small ratty throw rug, a TV. No piano. Cuddy vaguely wondered if it was in storage or if he'd actually been forced to hock it.

"I came to thank you again," she said. "Rachel is feeling much better. She's home from the hospital."

"Good," he said. "I'd send her a get well gift, but, you know, she thinks I'm dead."

Cuddy ignored this.

"There's something else I want to tell you. May I come in?"

"Not afraid of me anymore?" he asked pointedly.

She thought back to that moment at the prison— when he had gone to touch her and she had flinched.

"No, I'm not afraid of you, House," she said.

"Okay."

He gestured toward the room, let her in.

"I'm just doing dishes," he said, patting a stool in the tiny kitchen. "Have a seat."

"I can do those for you," she said. "You're on your feet all day."

"I'm fine, Cuddy," he said. He was lying. Once again, she had noticed that his limp was worse than ever. He could barely put pressure on the leg.

He offered her a glass of murky water from the tap, which she took.

"I have something to confess, House," she said, watching him clean.

"What's that?"

"I told Doug Westing not to hire you. I'm the reason you didn't get that job at the lab."

"I kind of figured that," he said.

"You did?"

"You have a lot of friends, Cuddy. They don't take kindly to hiring the guy who tried to kill you."

"Doug asked me directly and I told him not to hire you."

House shrugged.

"So what? I didn't deserve that job," he said.

He was working on a particularly stubborn bit of grease on a cast iron pot. His arm muscle coiled as he scrubbed.

She watched him for a bit.

"Are you taking anything for your leg?" she asked finally. She reluctantly sipped at her glass of water.

"No," he said. "I like the pain. It's pure . . .it's cleansing."

"It's stupid," she said. "As a doctor, you know better."

"Ex doctor," he corrected.

Cuddy stared at him, incredulous. Finally she said:

"House, what on earth's wrong with you? It's like you're barely recognizable as the man I used to know."

"Which man?" House asked. "Your 'crazed ex lover' as I think you put it? The homicidal maniac who tried to kill you?"

He didn't make eye contact—kept working on the stain like it was the most vexing medical problem he had ever tackled.

"Maybe it's time to stop punishing yourself, House. No one died that night."

"Actually, somebody did."

The meaning of what he said slowly sunk in for both of them.

She couldn't believe that she felt sorry for him. Couldn't believe that she wanted to take him in her arms and console him. Couldn't believe that she still gave a shit.

But she got up, stood next to him, took his hand.

"House, enough is enough. You've done your time. It's over. You saved a child's life—my child. We're even. I forgive you."

He didn't take her hand back. But he didn't pull away, either.

"Thank you," he said. "But I don't forgive myself."

"I want you to start taking pain medication. And I'm going to call Doug Westing and see if there are any more openings in his lab. You're wasting your gifts. It was selfish of me to keep you from getting that job."

"There's no point, Cuddy," House said. He had finished washing the dishes and was now beginning to dry them and put them away.

"My parole is up in 6 weeks. I'm leaving town."

#######

"Did you know about this?" she said, almost accusingly, in Wilson's office the next day.

"Of course, I knew."

And you're just going to let him go?"

"He's a grown man, Cuddy. He can do what he likes."

"But he's. . .running away from his problems. That's never the right choice."

"He thinks it's the only choice."

"Because of me?"

"Well, yeah, Cuddy. Because of you. But also because of Rachel. The fact that Rachel thinks he's dead—I can't tell you how much that affected him. It destroyed him."

Cuddy bit her nail, weighed whether or not to Wilson tell the truth.

"Rachel doesn't really think he's dead," she said quietly. "I just told him that to make him feel bad. I told her that House did a bad thing and he had to go away for a long time as punishment. I didn't get specific. She still thinks the car that drove into our house belonged to a stranger."

"Wow," Wilson said. "If House knew that, he'd be . . .a lot happier."

"Maybe I'll tell him."

"You sure you want to do that? It's an opening, Cuddy."

"I don't know what I want, Wilson. I just know I can't stand seeing him like this."

"No, me neither."

Cuddy laughed bitterly. "It's 2014. Will you and I ever stop talking about Gregory House?"

Wilson shook his head, laughed with her. "I highly doubt it."

She put a letter in the mail for him.

Dear House-

Rachel wrote this for her class project. I lied to you. I never told her that you were dead. She does, however, have no idea that you rammed your car into her dining room and almost killed her mother. So don't get too excited.

Attached, was a piece of white paper, with a hand written essay, in crayon.

Herose-

Some herose are firemen and some herose are policemen but some herose are doctors, like my mommy.

My hero is Doctor Greg Howse, becawse he fownd out I hade Hay Stings and then he saved me. He is also my freind, even thouh I do not see him ever.

By Rachel Cuddy.

Underneath the essay was a picture of a little girl, lying on a surgeon's table, smiling, and a smiling man with a stethoscope around his neck and a surgical hat with a red cross. The man was sitting on top of a unicorn.
Rachel had arrows pointing to the various subjects for identification. One said Rachel, the other said Howse, and the third said Sparkles.

Cuddy added a post script:

p.s. Since when did they let unicorns into the OR?

######

"Cuddy, I want to come clean about something."

Wilson was standing in her office, looking even more sheepish than usual.

"I'm having a little gathering at my house tomorrow night to celebrate my 45th birthday. I debated inviting you because, well, House will be there."

"I see."

"But I'd love if you came. Even if you just stopped by. I know Brenda would love to see you, too."

Brenda was the architect Wilson had been dating for the past six months. It was getting pretty serious. Cuddy, on the other hand, hadn't been with a man since her last attempt to date, quite literally, went up in smoke.

"I'll see if I can get a babysitter and try to be there," she said.

She got to the party on the late side, 9:30 or so, and instantly wondered if House was still there.

She knew everyone at the party, so it was like a gauntlet just trying to get to the back of the room where the bar was set up. She saw Wilson, gave him a birthday kiss. Chatted with Brenda about an article they had both read on Jezebel. Got introduced to Chase's latest flavor the week—a leggy blonde who was almost as pretty as he was.

Finally, she made it to the bar, poured herself a glass of white wine and looked around. No sign of House.

She felt a combination of relief and disappointment.

She gulped the glass, poured a second, and then a third.

She went to the bathroom. On the way out, she noticed that the door to Wilson's bedroom was cracked open a bit. She peered in.

House was sitting, alone, on the bed, reading a medical journal by a dim light. He had a glass of scotch in his hand. In the warm light, she could see the lines and shadows of his face. He looked older, more world-weary, but still handsome, as ever. Seeing him alone, she felt an all-too familiar stir. It was her curse, she realized. She would always be attracted to him.

"This looks cozy," she said, walking into the room.

He looked up. Smiled shyly.

"Yeah, I don't do well with parties these days," he admitted.

"You never did."

"No, I guess not."

"What are you reading?" she asked.

"Oh, very sexy stuff," he said. "Pneumatic Dilation versus Laparoscopic Heller's Myotomy for Idiopathic Achalasia."

"Wow. Good times," she said.

Every rational impulse in her brain was telling her to get back to the party. But she couldn't bring herself to leave. She kicked off her shoes and climbed onto the bed next to him, folding her legs behind her.

"Mind if I hide out here with you?" she said.

"Ironic, since you're the one I'm hiding out from," he admitted.

"Oh," she said, disappointed. "I thought things were okay between us. Did you get Rachel's essay?"

"I loved it," he said. "Really."

"I didn't write it for her, you know. She did that all on her own."

"I kinda figured so much. I'm guessing you know how to spell my name. . .'"

She smiled, then sidled closer, her body now pressing up against his. She peered over his shoulder, reading.

"Seriously, House. That article's even too boring for me, and I run a hospital."

She popped off the bed.

"Oooh, let's see what books Wilson has!" she said playfully, moving to the bookshelf. She began pulling out titles, laughing: "I'm Okay, You're Okay? Really Wilson? What year is this? 1971? The Complete Works of the Marquis de Sade. Now we're talking. Wait, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows? Of course Wilson reads Harry Potter."

She opened the book and started flipping the pages.

"Cuddy." She spun around, startled. House had gotten up from the bed and was standing behind her.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She closed her eyes. She was practically vibrating from the nearness of him.

"I don't know," she said, honestly.

He took his cue, wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her toward him.

"Cuddy . . ." he said again.

She didn't hesitate, kissed him. In an instant, he had her up against the bookshelf, and was reaching under her blouse, his hands—once the soft hands of a doctor and piano player, now rougher, the hands of a worker—roaming the silky skin of her back and waist.

"I never thought I'd . . we'd. . ." he said breathlessly.

"Shut up House. Don't ruin it," she said, biting his bottom lip, enough to make it bleed.

They staggered away from the shelf and fell back on the bed. Now House had removed her shirt and she was climbing on top of him, straddling him, unbuttoning his shirt, kissing his neck, devouring him.

Lost in their reverie, they both forgot that there was a party going on, not 10 feet away from them.

They heard a clearing of a throat.

They quickly and clumsily disentangled, looked up. Wilson was standing in the doorway bedroom, his arms folded, looking amused.

"I must say, this is the last thing I expected to see when I came in here looking for my glasses."

Cuddy was mortified. The presence of Wilson jolted her back to reality. She grabbed her blouse. Put it on hastily.

"I was just. . .going," she said.

And she left House and Wilson, staring at each other dumbly, in her wake.

######

She confessed the whole thing to her therapist a few days later.

"How did it make you feel?" came the predictable response.

"In the moment? Excited, exhilarated. Afterwards? Like there is something seriously wrong with me."

"Why do you think you want to be intimate with a man who once tried to kill you?"

Cuddy sighed. She had expected the question. "The violence was … an aberration," she explained. "It's not who he is. When he ODs on vicodin, he . . .hallucinates, acts out. He's clean now. Has been for almost 4 years."

"It sounds like you're making excuses for him."

"I've had a lot of practice," Cuddy said, with a grim chuckle.

"But when you first began your treatment, Lisa, you were terrified of House. You hated him."

"I was angry," Cuddy admitted. "I demonized him. Then, after he saved Rachel, he became a saint, you know? But he's neither. He's just a man. A very deeply flawed man who I have been in love with 25 years."

"There's a fine line between love and obsession," her therapist said.

"Don't I know it," Cuddy replied.

She called him a few days later.

"I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you," she said. "I've been processing."

"I understand," House said. 'Wilson walking in on us. It's like being caught having sex by your dad."

"I wasn't talking about Wilson."

"I know."

"House. .. I talked to Doug Westing. He really wants you to come work for him."

"I can't. I already accepted a job at Johns Hopkins," House said. "I'm leaving in two days."

Cuddy felt strangely panicked.

"I don't want you to go."

"Cuddy, I have to."

"Why? Aren't I the reason you're leaving?"

"Well . . . yes."

"Then I'm telling you, you don't need to go."

"Yes, I do. You need to get on with your life, Cuddy. Without me."

"You were in prison for 3 years House, and I didn't get on with my life. How is your moving to Baltimore going to be any different?"

"Because you were traumatized then. By me. But you're better now. Stronger."

"And I realize that I still want you in my life."

"I'll always be in your life, Cuddy. Just not that way. Trust me, it's better like this."

"Why? Because I deserve better?"

"Yes," he said sincerely.

"But House. . .I don't want anyone better. I just want you." She started to cry.

"Cuddy, don't make this harder than it already is."

"Damn you, House. I really hate you sometimes, ya know?"

"I know you do, Cuddy. I know."

EPILOGUE

The landlord in Baltimore handed him the keys to his new apartment, helped with his luggage up the flight of stairs. House opened the door, blinked at the bright lights, the clean open space. Then he did a double take. A piano was pushed up against the far wall. He looked closer. His piano.

"The piano?" he asked, confused.

"A gift from your lady friend," the landlord said with a chuckle. "She insisted it be here when you arrived. She's . . .hard to say no to."

House laughed, with fondness. "I know."

"She left a note," the landlord said. "I'll leave you to it, unless there's anything else."

"No, I'm good. Thanks."

The landlord left. House limped over to the piano. The note, on a nice piece of personalized stationery, was on the music ledge.

House-
A little House-warming gift, pun intended. Here's to always making beautiful music—whether we're together or apart.
C

House held the note for a second, smelled it. Laughed at the adolescent silliness of the gesture. Then he rubbed his hand across the glossy wood, sat on the bench.

"Hello, old friend," he said out loud.

He played a few notes, then a few more. Then a lilting melody. He hadn't played the piano in four years.

After a while, he got up from the bench, opened his duffel bag, pulled out a piece of paper—smoothed it. It was the essay and drawing from Rachel.

He went to his refrigerator and hung the essay up with a magnet.

Now it felt like home.