House arrived home from Florida in an even fouler mood than usual.

Of course, he was ticked about the coitus interruptus on the beach—waiting six agonizingly long months to have sex with Cuddy and then having it pulled out from under him was hardly his idea of a good time.

But mostly he was just worried about her.

Had she caught up to Brett? Had they argued? Was he still planning on going through with that ridiculous divorce—or had that just been an overreaction in the heat of the moment?

Whatever the case, House knew Cuddy was in a bad place and it was because of him.

And he felt like crap about it.

To add insult to injury, it had been over a week now and he still hadn't heard from her. Nothing. Not a phone call, not an email, not even a text.

He wanted to get in touch with her himself—but figured there was a strong likelihood that Brett was monitoring her telephone and computer use. He'd already screwed things up badly enough. He didn't want to make it worse.

Normally in these instances he would turn to Wilson for advice (and then artfully twist it to suit his own agenda). But his best friend was on some sort of New Age couples retreat in India (Sonia's idea—but at least there had been some vague promise of Tantric sex.)

He was alone.

So he steeled himself with a shot of scotch, scrolled through his contacts, and dialed an unfamiliar number.

"Hello?" a female voice said.

"Julia? It's House. Don't hang up."

"Jesus, House. You really have some nerve calling here. Haven't you done enough damage?"

"I just want to know if she's okay."

"No, she's not okay. Her marriage is falling apart—thanks to you. Do you ever think about anybody other than yourself?"

"Apparently not," he said dryly.

"You're a real ass, you know that, House?"

"Yeah. . .Can you at least get a message to her?"

"No House. I'm not going to get a message to her. Just leave us alone."

In the background, there were footsteps, then a woman's voice.

"Julia, who is it?"

Cuddy.

"It's. . ."— a long pause—"House."

"Let me talk to him. I'll take it in the guest room."

The sound of a phone being exchanged. More footsteps.

Then a near-whisper: "Hi."

"Hi," he whispered back. "You okay?"

"Been better. Sorry I haven't called. I promised Brett that I would never talk to you again." She gave an ironic little laugh. "Good one, huh?"

"So you guys are. . .talking?"

"Mostly he yells, I listen."

"I'm so sorry, Cuddy."

"Yeah, it hasn't exactly been a fun week."

"And you're staying with Julia?"

"For now. Rachel and I have no place to go. Brett kicked us out."

House's mind flashed to Rachel. The car crash into her living room, her illness, now this. The kid had been through a lot.

"Is she okay?"

"She's fine. She's 7. We had chocolate chip pancakes for dinner last night so all was right in the universe."

"I'm glad," he said.

They were both silent.

"So what's going to happen now?" he asked finally.

"I don't know." There was a catch in her voice. She was on the verge of tears. "I think I'm getting a divorce. Brett is furious with me. He doesn't handle adversity particularly well. I guess he doesn't have much experience with it."

"I could give him some pointers," House said.

"Yeah. You and me both."

Because of me, House thought. Almost all the adversity in your life is because of me.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked.

"No," she said. "But it's nice to hear a friendly voice."

He hesitated. "I still feel like this is all my fault."

"Why?" she said. "Because you forced me to meet you on that beach? Last time I checked, what we did—well, what we were about to do—takes two."

"Yeah, but. . . you resisted."

"Token resistance," Cuddy said plainly. "Look House, we both played our roles. And we both know I wasn't coerced."

"I still feel like shit."

"I know you do, House. But you shouldn't. . .Listen, I gotta go. It's Rachel's storytime and I'm trying to keep up our routine. I promise I'll call soon, okay?"

"Okay," he said. "Goodnight, Cuddy."

"Goodnight House."

She hung up.

He looked at the phone, feeling quite possibly worse than before. His rubbed his leg—it was killing him. He popped 4 Advil, knowing it would barely make a dent.

Julia was right. He was a selfish bastard.

When he moved to Baltimore, he'd had this idea that he was making the ultimate sacrifice for Cuddy. Saw himself as noble, a martyr even.

In his mind, if she was happily married and he was alone and miserable, he'd done the right thing. And if they hooked up once or twice a year? That was just his reward for staying away.

But, of course, it didn't work that way. Infidelity is never a victimless crime. And in this case, there were three victims.

He picked up the phone again, dialed his boss at the lab.

"Phil, I need to take a few days off. I have some unfinished business in Princeton I need to attend to."

The diner across the street from the Princeton Municipal Courthouse was one of those places that time forgot. The booths were maroon-colored vinyl, the waitresses called the customers "honey" and there were dishes on the menu like creamed chipped beef and liver and onions. Normally, House loved a place like this—hell, he had worked in one. But he wasn't here to soak up the ambiance.

He'd been told that almost all the judges and lawyers who worked in the court came here for lunch. So he slid into a booth and waited.

"What'll be, handsome?" a middle aged waitress said. The nametag on her uniform read "Mary."

"I'll just start with some of your finest java, Mary," House said, laying on the charm. "And, if you don't mind, a question: Does Judge Alston come here often for lunch?"

She gave him a cautious look. "Just about every day. Why?"

"We're old college buddies. I haven't seen him in a while and I was hoping we could catch up."

"Well, honey, if you're going to sit here waiting for the judge you better order more than coffee."

House glanced at the laminated menu. It had pictures of all the food on it. He wasn't hungry.

"Uh. . .a piece of cherry pie?" he said.

"That's all?" she said.

He nodded.

"You're lucky you're cute," she said, and grudgingly walked off to fill his order.

Brett came in with the late lunch rush, about 1:15 or so. He was with two other men and a woman—and the room seemed to part, Red-Sea-style, as they strode confidently to their table. House suspected that they were all judges.

Hiding behind a newspaper, he watched them order, then eat, then ask for the check, at which point he hobbled over to their table.

"Brett, can I have a word with you for a second?"

Brett was in the middle of telling an animated story about a defendant who had brought a Chihuahua in a purse to court and he stopped mid sentence. When he saw House, his mouth dropped open.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said.

"Just 5 minutes of your time," House said.

As it turned out, meeting Brett in such a public place was a pretty good strategy. Not only was he he less likely to make a scene in front of his colleagues, he was also less likely to do House any bodily harm.

"Unbelievable," Brett said, shaking his head. He stood up, visibly upset. "Go ahead without me," he told his friends.

"Everything okay?" the female of the group asked.

"Fine," he muttered, and followed House back to his booth.

"What the hell are you doing here, House?" he accused.

"I'm applying for a job as a court stenographer," House said. "Turns out I'm a really fast typist."

He immediately regretted his joke.

"Sorry," he said. "Old defense mechanism. . ."

"I'm due back in court in 15 minutes," Brett said impatiently. "Whatever you have to say, make it quick."

"I want to talk about Cud. . .Lisa."

"What about her?"

"She loves you."

"Thanks for the news flash."

"And you love her."

"You have no idea how I feel about her."

"Actually, I think I have a pretty good idea," House said. He fiddled with his coffee stirrer.

Brett stared at him, his arms folded defensively across his chest.

"Look, Lisa's a 46 year old woman," House continued. "Any 46 year old is going to come into a relationship with a little baggage. . . I'm her baggage."

"Yeah, well, she should've kicked her baggage to the curb when she took an oath of fidelity to me," Brett said pointedly.

"Agreed," House said. "And she will. This was a one-time mistake. It'll never happen again. You have my word—as a man."

"Your word means as much to me as that straw you're biting on."

House sighed, looked down at the table, rubbed his brow.

"Do you have any idea how much I envy you?" he said finally.

"Envy me? Oh this is going to be good."

"Don't you see? You win. I lose. You're her life. I'm just a meaningless vacation."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it," Brett said.

"The point is, you can make her happy," House said quietly. "Something I could never do."

Brett was actually a little thrown by House's candor.

"Maybe I don't want to make her happy anymore," he said.

"I think you do," House said. "Because she's worth fighting for. And we both know it."

He stood up, slapped a 20 dollar bill on the table, grabbed his cane.

"Make her and that little girl of hers happy, and I swear to you, you'll never hear from me again."

Later that night, Brett showed up at Julia's house. Rang the bell.

When Julia answered the door, she broke into a huge grin.

"Brett!" she said, practically embracing him. Julia loved herself some Judge Brett Alston.

"Is Lisa here?" he asked.

"Yeah, she's upstairs putting Rachel to bed. Have a seat. I'll go get her. Can I get you something? Wine? Beer? A sandwich?"

"I'm good," he said.

She raced up the stairs, taking two at a time. Cuddy was on the edge of Rachel's bed, reading her a book about fairies and unicorns.

Julia motioned for her urgently in the doorway.

"Brett's downstairs!" she whispered, sotto voce.

"My Brett?" Cuddy asked.

"Yes, he came to see you!"

"Wow," Cuddy said. "Can you finish reading this book to Rachel?"

"Of course!" Julia said.

Cuddy leaned down to Rachel. "Mommy's going to go talk to Brett, okay? I'll be back later to kiss you goodnight."

She handed Julia the book. Started toward the stairs.

"Wait? Aren't you going to put on some makeup? Fix yourself a little?"

"Oh, because then he'll want me back?" Cuddy laughed. "Just wish me luck."

"Good luck," Julia said.

Cuddy went downstairs. Brett was sitting on the couch, flipping through a copy of Sports Illustrated.

When he saw her, he put down the magazine, stood up. Always one to stand on ceremony.

"Have a seat," he said.

She sat across from him, on a chair. Hugged her knees with her arms.

"So . . . what's up?" she said, laughing at her own inappropriately casual choice of words.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," Brett said. "And I want you and Rachel to move back home."

"You do?" Cuddy said.

"Yeah."

"Brett, I'm thrilled. Of course we'll move back. . .but why the sudden change of heart?"

"I just realized that you're the kind of woman worth fighting for."

"You don't need to fight for me, Brett. I'm yours."

"Funny, that's what he said," Brett said, almost under his breath.

"Who?"

"House."

"House?"

"Yeah, can you believe it? The little prick came to see me today. Actually tried to convince me to take you back."

"He did?"

"Yeah. Told me you deserved to be happy. And that I made you happy. I do, don't I?"

Cuddy stared at him, speechless.

"Yes, Brett. You do."

"So it's settled then. You'll move back in? On Saturday?"

"Uh huh," said Cuddy. Her mind was racing.

Brett walked up to her, gave her a long hug.

"I've missed you," he said.

She was quiet.

The next night, House sat in his apartment feeling extravagantly sorry for himself. He was alone, he'd probably never see Cuddy again, and to top it all off, his leg felt like it was being stabbed by hot pokers.

A week earlier, he'd pulled an old medical textbook off the shelf and a small baggy of vicodin had fallen from the pages. He had hidden so much vicodin over the years, it would take a lifetime to find his complete stash.

He should've thrown the bag away on the spot—it contained 6 pills. But somehow he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Now, he pulled the pills from the kitchen drawer where he had left them and dropped two into his palm. He stared at them.

For a second, he thought of the sweet relief, of the numbness, of the brief respite from his misery that the pills would bring him. It was almost overpowering.

He hadn't taken a vicodin in nearly 5 years.

What's the difference? he thought. Who's going to know? Who's going to care?

But it was on vicodin that he'd hallucinated sex with Cuddy and ended up in Mayfield. It was on vicodin that he'd crashed into her home. In fact, almost every lousy thing he'd ever done in his life had been under the influence of these useless pills. And he wanted to be a better man. Not just for her this time, but for himself.

So he collected the pills—all six of them—and spilled them down the drain. He ran the garbage disposal. Heard them grind into nothingness.

He walked over to the piano bench, started to play—anything to distract him. It was about 11 pm. By now, he thought, Cuddy and Rachel would be back at Brett's house. He probably lived in some sort of enormous McMansion. Rachel probably had more toys than she knew what to do with. Maybe a Golden Retriever. He smiled at the thought.

Faintly, he heard something bang. He thought it was coming from the apartment next door. Then a bang again, this time a little louder.

He realized it was his front door.

He got up, opened it.

It was Cuddy and Rachel, both looking exhausted, like they'd been on an arduous journey. Cuddy was carrying a rather unwieldy suitcase and Rachel had a Hello Kitty knapsack slung over her shoulder.

"Cuddy! Rachel! What are you doing here?"

Without thinking, he pulled them both in for an embrace.

"Rachel, you're so tall!" he said, holding her at arm's length, taking her in. "And your hair is so long!"

"I'm going to donate it to Locks of Love!" Rachel said proudly.

"Wow. Uncle Wilson's idea?"

"Hers," Cuddy said, ruffling Rachel's hair.

House blinked at them both. He was in shock.

He grabbed their bags—thankfully, Cuddy's was on wheels—and led them into his apartment.

"You must be parched. Do you want something to drink?" he finally asked, walking into the kitchen.

"My unicorn!" Rachel said, noticing the drawing on the fridge.

Cuddy noticed it too. Felt a lump rise in her throat.

"Yeah," House smiled. "Your unicorn."

He opened the fridge.

"So what'll it be?"

"Apple juice!"

House peered in, scratched his head. He had a six pack of Dos Equuis, a bottle of tonic water, and a jar of pickles.

"She'll take a glass of tap water," Cuddy said, shaking her head.

"One water, coming right up."

He ran a glass under the tap.

"Hey, Rach," Cuddy said. "Can you go watch TV in the bedroom for a bit while House and I talk?"

Rachel nodded, scampered into the bedroom.

"I'll show you how to turn on the T. . ." But before House could finish the sentence, there was a click. Then a flurry of changed channels.

"She's 7," Cuddy explained. "She knows more about technology than both of us combined."

"Oh," House said.

He gazed at Cuddy. Even exhausted, with no makeup and messy hair, he still thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She would always be a goddess to him.

Was he hallucinating? But he distinctly remembered grinding that vicodin into a powder.

"Cuddy, really—what are you doing here? And for that matter, how did you get here?"

"We took the train," Cuddy said. "And then a cab."

"I could've picked you up at the station."

"I needed the element of surprise," Cuddy said. "I needed to see the look on your face when I arrived on your doorstep unannounced with my 7-year-old."

"So did I pass the test?"

"With flying colors," she said, beaming at him.

In the next room, they heard the sound of The Cartoon Network—maybe Bugs Bunny.

"Is Rachel okay in there?" he said.

"Of course. The television was a pretense. I'm sure she's already sound asleep."

"You look pretty wiped out yourself," he said.

She slumped her shoulders in an exaggerated way. "I am wiped out."

"C'mere," he said. He hugged her, held her tight for a long time. Her cheek was up against his chest, the rough cotton of his Oxford shirt. She breathed him in. He smelled like home.

They both sat on the couch.

"So what happened with Brett?" House asked.

"He came to see me last night," she said. "Said he wanted me back."

"But that's a good thing, right?"

"I thought it was, at first. But then I realized that I can't be a good wife to him when I'm still in love with another man."

"Me?"

"Yeah, dummy, you."

House smiled. She smiled back.

"So what is this? You're here for a visit? You're . . . moving in? What?"

"I haven't thought ahead that far," Cuddy admitted. "I just know that I'm done running away from you House. You're the love of my life. I think I'm the love of yours. And it's time we both stopped pretending otherwise."

"But I ran a car into your house," he said.

"And I broke your heart—repeatedly. We hurt each other. It's what we do. But we'll get through it—together. As I see it, we have no choice. We obviously can't be apart. We obviously can't be with other people. So we may as well be miserable together."

He laughed at her absurd logic, blinked away a tear, hugged her again. Now they were kissing—a soft lingering kiss, a promise of things to come.

They parted.

"If you stay, where would you work? Where would Rachel go to school?" House asked. He had a million questions.

"Let's sort things out in the morning, okay?" Cuddy said. "Now I just want to go to bed."

They went into the bedroom. As predicted Rachel was already fast asleep, her face buried in a pillow. Cuddy stripped down to a bra and panties, collapsed beside her daughter. House took off his shirt, lay down on Rachel's other side.

Cuddy reached a hand across Rachel's back. House took it.

"Good night, House," she murmured. "Thanks for having that exact look on your face when I. . ." She was out cold before she got out the words.

House wasn't sleepy at all. He didn't care. He held Cuddy's hand, stroked her arm, and looked at Rachel. She was having a good dream. She smiled in her sleep. He'd never been happier in his life.