He went to touch it, to reassure himself that it was still there. Instead, he felt the bottom of the bed, the hospital sheets, sweaty and slightly rough under his touch. A wave of revulsion passed through him. He felt for it again, not wanting to believe.

But it was gone.

Cuddy was sitting in the chair beside him and saw him stir, watched him touch his missing leg, saw his face as the horror fully registered on it.

"House," she said gently.

"I trusted you," he hissed.

"I tried," she said, feeling herself beginning to cry, trying to stay strong, for his sake. "We did everything we could. There was no compromise this time. No middle ground. If we didn't amputate you were going to die."

He looked at her, and something resembling pure hatred flashed in his eyes. She had never seen him look at her like that before.

"I trusted you," he repeated.

Cuddy swallowed back her tears.

"I'm so sorry, House," she said softly. "I'm so so sorry."

"Get out," he demanded.

"No," she said firmly. "I'm not leaving you alone."

"Then get Wilson."

"He's. . .he'll be right back. He just went to the cafeteria for some coffee."

As if on cue, Wilson arrived, holding two coffees. He gave one to Cuddy—skim milk, no sugar—put his own cup down.

"House," he said, in a tone of voice he usually reserved for his patients. "How do you feel?"

"Butchered," House said.

"I'm so sorry, House."

"I don't want to talk about it. And I want her the hell away from me."

"I was just leaving," Cuddy said, her voice shaking.

She stared at House, feeling helpless. He was living his worst nightmare. He blamed her. And there was absolutely nothing she could do.

She left his room, went back to her office, and burst into tears.

#####

"You should eat something," Wilson said.

House stared with disgust at the hospital food on the tray in front of him: Soggy macaroni and cheese and mushy peas and chocolate pudding with a film on top.

"I'm not hungry. . .and why the hell are they serving me all this soft food? I didn't have my appendix removed. Just my leg."

Wilson didn't say anything. Looked at the floor.

"Ahhhh," House said, finally getting it. "They don't want to give me any sharp utensils. I'm on a suicide watch."

"We're worried about you, House. Everyone is worried about you."

"You shouldn't bother. To commit suicide, you have to care whether you live or die. I don't."

"That's very reassuring House."

"Sorry if I'm not Hallmark card-y enough for you these days, pal."

Wilson regarded his friend wearily.

"How's the pain?"

"Horrible. Like the leg's still there, but 10 times worse," House said bitterly.

"The phantom pain is to be expected," Wilson said. "You know that. You have to give it time. It should start to recede in a few weeks."

"Yeah, or not," House said. "With my luck, I'll have twice the pain and half the legs."

"Have they talked to you yet about prosthetics?"

"I'm perfectly happy with my penis size. You shouldn't project your insecurities onto me. . .oh, you mean my leg?"

Wilson smiled, perhaps a little too eagerly. He was happy that House had at least attempted a joke at his expense.

"Oh yeah, they've been going on and on all about the great strides in prosthetic technology," House said. "People are running marathons and hiking in the mountains and building treehouses for their kids and blah, blah, blah. I'll be breaking Usain Bolt's record in the 50 yard dash in no time."

"I know you don't see it that way now, House," Wilson said cautiously. "But this could be the best thing that ever happened to you. Maybe this whole thing—the experimental drugs, the tumors—maybe it was all just a way to put you on a better path. It's possible that you could walk, without a cane. Pain free."

Wilson was so wrapped up in his little pep talk that he didn't even see the anger rising in House's face. Suddenly there was a loud crashing as House threw back the covers, knocking the tray and its contents onto the floor.

"You think this my path, Wilson? Huh? Huh?" he said, showing his friend the ugly stump for the first time. "Does this look like the best thing that ever happened to me? Does this look like something anyone would choose to do to themselves?"

He was screaming now, completely hysterical. He was on a roll, throwing everything near his bed—the bed pan, the clock, a book.

"Am I a lucky guy, Wilson? Would you trade places with me?"

"House!" Wilson shouted. "Calm down!"

But it was hopeless.

"Fuck you, Wilson! Fuck you!" He was ripping IV tubes out his arms, flailing in the bed like a madman.

Two nurses rushed in, one a male, who held House down. They gave him a strong sedative injection

"Go ahead. Give me a fucking sedative!" House. shouted. "While you're at it, why not just put me out of my fucking mis. . ."

Before he finished the sentence, he was out.

Cuddy, having heard the commotion, came rushing in from the hall. Ran to Wilson, who was standing in shock.

"What happened?" Cuddy said. She put her arm around him. He was shaking.

"He. . .he went nuts," Wilson said. "We were talking and he just started. . . throwing things."

"Are you okay?" Cuddy said.

Wilson took a deep breath.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Cuddy was staring at House. He was calm now. Asleep. The covers were still pulled back. Without hesitating, she moved from Wilson's side and pulled the blanket up to his waist.

Her eyes welled again.

"What are we going to do, Wilson? What the hell are we going to do?"

#####

It went like that for days. Outbursts of anger. Refusing to eat (they eventually had to hook him to another IV for nutrition). Refusing to talk to the physical therapists about the next stage of his treatment. Refusing to see any visitors besides Wilson—not even his team.

Cuddy tried to talk to him. But he wanted no part of her. He clearly was focusing the brunt of his anger on her. In his mind, she had betrayed him. The worst betrayal of his life.

About a week after the surgery, she came by his room.

"Get out," he said.

There was a rush of eager footsteps.

"Howse!"

It was Rachel.

House grit his teeth, glared at Cuddy, and smiled weakly at the child.

"Mama says you're sick," Rachel said.

"Yeah, that's right."

"I made you this picture so you'd feel better."

She handed him a drawing. It was very colorful, with lots of big scribbles. House could make out a man, and maybe a rooster and some sort of baseball bat?

"Wow," House said. "That's really. . .nice."

"It' s a pirate," Cuddy said helpfully. "And that's his parrot. And that's his . . . peg leg."

House continued to stare at the drawing.

"Thanks Rachel," he said, trying to maintain his smile. "Listen, matey. House is really tired today. So maybe I'll see you soon? I just want to talk to your mommy for a second."

"Bye bye Howse! Feel better!" Rachel said sunnily, kissing House on the cheek before she grabbed a nurse's hand and scampered into the hallway.

The minute she was out of sight, House's smile dissolved.

"Don't ever use that child to get to me ever again," he said coldly. "It won't go so well next time."

"I'm sorry," Cuddy said. "I thought she would cheer you up."

"You thought wrong," House said.

"Please House," her voice was slightly desperate. "Please let me be here for you."

"When I really needed you, you weren't there for me. Why the hell would I want you here now?"

######

She cried in her office now. A lot.

Wilson tried to console her, tried to convince her that it wasn't her fault, that there was nothing she could've done differently.

But she had an overwhelming sense of survivor's guilt, exacerbated by House's obvious anguish.

She had played a role in his infarction, after all—standing by while the hospital ignored his original symptoms, then suggesting the compromised treatment that led to his permanent pain.

And now wasn't she responsible for this, too? Wasn't she the one who had sent him down the dangerous path to the experimental drugs? To the tumors? If she hadn't broken up with him when she did, he'd still be on nothing stronger than Ibuprofen.

If she hadn't broken up with him, he'd still have two legs, she thought. He'd still be happy.

########

Finally, Andrews, the doctor who had performed the surgery, came to visit House in his room.

"I'm sorry House. We did everything we could. Dr. Cuddy. . ."

"What? Held the knife?" House interrupted. "Gave you the big thumbs up from across the room?"

Andrews looked at him curiously.

"You don't know?"

"Don't know what?" said House.

"Dr. Cuddy did everything to save your leg. She woke up two surgeons in the middle of the night. Made them come in for last minute consults. She was throwing out these insane alternative options. She was . . . crazed—I'd never seen her like that before. I finally had to ask her to leave the OR. . . " His voice had a musing quality to it. "The Dean of Medicine and I'm ordering her out of her own OR."

House lay back, processing this news. Why hadn't Cuddy said anything to him? Why hadn't she defended herself? Of course, he hadn't really given her a chance.

"Oh," he said, looking down.

"I really am sorry, House."

"Yeah, me too."

"You'll be up and at em in no time, though," Andrews said with a patronizing grin. "Probably running marathons by this time next year."

"Probably," said House, but his mind was a million miles away.

#######

After two weeks in the hospital, House was sent home with round the clock nursing care. The plan was for him to recover in his apartment for 2 more weeks, then go to a rehab facility in Virginia for several months, where he'd be fitted with a prosthetic leg and have to be taught, like a baby, how to walk all over again.

He hadn't seen or spoken to Cuddy since he'd learned the truth from Andrews.

A few nights after he got home, he was sitting on the couch, drinking scotch, a thick plaid blanket covering his leg. The nurse was in the kitchen, doing dishes, or at least avoiding him with the water turned on.

He was half-watching an old Western on TV, his mind drifting to its usual dark corners, and he didn't even hear the knock at the door or the murmured conversation in the entranceway.

"House."

He looked up.

She was standing next to him, in sweats and a tank top that was meant to be the height of casual but he found annoyingly sexy, holding a duffel bag.

"What are you doing here, Cuddy?" he said.

"I came to check in on you. . .I . . .I sent the nurse away."

It was a dirty trick. But what could he do? Run away? Kick her out? He could barely get off the couch and into his wheelchair on his own.

"Cuddy, what do you want from me?" he said wearily.

Your forgiveness, she thought.

"Nothing. I just want to help you."

He sighed.

"I could use a sponge bath," he said.

"Really? Because I could give you one," she said, meaning it.

"I was kidding," he said. Christ.

Cuddy grabbed a glass from the shelf.

"May I?" she said, holding up the bottle of scotch

"Help yourself."

She poured the brown liquid into the small glass, sat next to him on the couch—not close like when they were dating; the space between them could fill books—regarded the TV.

"What are we watching?"

"Seriously? You've never seen Shane before?"

"All these old Westerns blend together to me."

"It's a classic."

"Is it any good?"

"What part of classic don't you understand?"

He took a swallow of his drink. He didn't want to be an ass to her. She didn't deserve it.

"I owe you an apology, I guess," he said reluctantly. "I talked to Andrews. He told me that you were…on my side that night."

"I'm always on your side, House," she said.

"Not always."

That comment lingered thickly in the air. They were both quiet.

She looked at the screen. Shane had just been shot and killed, but his trusty horse was carrying him away from the town he had saved. A little boy was yelling, "Shane! Come back."

The words THE END flashed across the screen.

Yeesh, what a downer.

House flipped off the TV.

"You could use a shave," Cuddy said, looking at him.

"You want to shave me now?"

"Why not? It wouldn't be the first time."

"I can shave myself Cuddy. My arms work fine."

"I know. . .I just like to shave you," she said, feeling sheepish.

God, why didn't he let her in at all? Why wouldn't he giver her even an inch?

"Okay," he said, almost as if he could read her thoughts.

She eagerly went into the bathroom, got the shaving cream, the razor, a washcloth, a glass of warm water.

She knelt in front of him, washed his face with the cloth, smeared the cream over his face, his strong chin, his beautiful jaw line.

She slowly ran the razor down his cheek, then under his nose, then to his jaw. She dipped the razor in water, started working on the other side, slowly and gently dragging the blade across his stubble. She held his jaw still with her hands. He was breathing very heavily as she worked.

"House," she said. And started to kiss him.

For a second, he resisted, but then he kissed back, and she could taste the shaving cream in her mouth. His tongue was soft but firm as it probed her mouth and his hands made their way to her neck, her clavicle, her shoulders. She moaned a bit when they reached her breasts.

She yanked off her tank top, and her bra, unbuttoned his pajama top, started to kiss his chest. She felt hot, almost weak with desire.

It was only when she went for his pajama bottoms, that he recoiled.

"What the hell are you doing?" he sputtered.

"I want to be with you," she said, still kissing him, trying to tug at his pants.

He pulled away, more violently this time.

"What are you, some kind of fetishist? Do stumps turn you on?"

Her face turned crimson. She hadn't expected this, although maybe she should've. "I just want to be close to you. . . any way possible," she said.

"So this is a pity fuck? Fuck the cripple and feel less terrible about House and his tragic, tragic circumstances?"

"It's not like that, House."

"What's it like then?"

"I love you," she said.

She took off her pants, then her underpants. She was standing in front of him completely naked. She felt, somehow, that it was important to be vulnerable tonight.

He stared at her, completely unmoved. She had been naked in front of House many times—he always told her how much he loved to look at her body—but she had never felt more exposed.

He pulled another blanket off the back of the couch—a somewhat inadequately sized velvet throw—and chucked it at her.

"Cover yourself Cuddy," he said. "I'm going to bed."

He pulled the wheelchair over with his cane, and, grunting in pain, lifted himself slowly off the couch and into the chair.

She didn't move. Didn't cover herself with the blanket. Didn't offer to help.

She stood there naked in his living room, watched him wheel himself into the bedroom, close the door behind him, and turn off the light.

######

In the morning, she made coffee that she brought to him in bed.

"Thank you," he said, rubbing his eyes, looking at her sadly.

"How do you feel this morning?" she asked.

"Like shit," he said. She wasn't sure if he was referring to his leg or his behavior from last night.

She turned to leave.

"Cuddy, I. . ."

She stopped, looked at him.

"What House?"

"Forget it," he said.

The next nurse came for her shift and Cuddy left to go to work, without even saying goodbye.

######

Two weeks later, he left for rehab. She didn't talk to him, but Wilson did, on the phone, every few days.

He gave her progress reports. Very typical House. At first, everyone was a moron. The prosthetic hurt. His leg still hurt. Why didn't they just let him come home and waste away in his apartment?

Then, maybe a couple of the therapists weren't that bad. One of the patients was a political science teacher from Brown University and a halfway decent card player. House was learning to walk with his new leg, but it was hard, lots of setbacks. Wilson said that House didn't exactly seem cheerful, but at least he sensed a new resolve.

"Have you heard from him?" Wilson asked cautiously.

"No," Cuddy said. "I guess he doesn't want to talk to me anymore."

######

He had been gone for over two months when Cuddy's phone rang in the middle of the night.

"Hello," she said groggily, fearing it was bad news about her mother.

"Hi," came the voice, husky and quiet, on the other end.

"House?" she bolted up in bed. "Is everything okay?" (The last time he had called in the middle of the night, he was lying half dead in a bathtub, covered in his own blood.)

"Yeah, everything's fine."

"I'm pretty sure it's 2 a.m. where you are, too," Cuddy said.

"I know. I couldn't sleep. I wanted to tell you something."

"What?"

"My leg doesn't hurt Cuddy." He said it with the pride of a small child who just brought home a perfect report card.

"It doesn't?" she said.

"No. The pain is gone. And I'm actually getting pretty good on my new leg. I managed to walk across a room today without wiping out for the first time."

She laughed, rubbed her eyes, hoped he couldn't tell she was crying.

"Are you crying, Cuddy?"

Of course.

"I'm just happy for you, House."

"Yeah," he said softly. "Me too."

There was a bit of a silence. Finally he said,

"Cuddy, there's something else I wanted to tell you and that is: Thank you."

"You're thanking me? For what?"

"For everything. For saving me. Again. For sticking by my side. For. . ." he chuckled. "For giving me a going away image to jerk off to when I'm alone in my room at night."

So he hadn't been completely unmoved by her little striptease that night.

"You're… a true friend," he said.

Cuddy felt a sense of wellbeing and relief, the likes of which she hadn't felt since his surgery.

"So, do you want any visitors?" she said. "Wilson and I have been talking about driving out to see you."

"No. . .I think I need to stay focused on my treatment. I'll be home in a month."

"I understand," she said.

"But Cuddy," he hesitated. "I thought maybe I could take you up on that sponge bath when I got back."

She smiled. "You did, huh?"

"Yeah. If the offer is still on the table." His voice was filled with anticipation.

She thought about it. She was not still sure what had fueled her ill-advised seduction that night. Guilt mixed with lust mixed with sadness mixed with undeniable love. In other words, the story of her relationship with House.

"It is," she said. "I might even wear my slutty nurse's uniform for you."

"Oh. My. God."

She laughed.

"I'm going to bed now, House."

"Okay, me too. Say hello to Rachel for me."

"I will. I'll see you in a month."

He hung up.

Cuddy hugged her bare legs and sat there for a while, thinking. He had thanked her. He had no pain. He was happy. And so, at last, was she.