"This is bullshit!" House said, waving his approval form in the air.
Cuddy, who had been sitting at her desk with something of a thousand-yard stare, snapped out of it.
"Huh?" she said, blinking at him. "What's bullshit?"
"The fact that you didn't check the little box on my approval form next to the words 'nerve biopsy'. That's what the box is there for."
"A nerve biopsy is premature and we both know it," Cuddy said. "You haven't even tried nerve stimulation yet."
"Nerve stimulation is for doctors who don't have the balls to do a biopsy."
"Still, I would prefer that you. . ."
"Just because you're angry with me over our breakup, that's no reason to take it out on my patients."
"I'm not angry with you, House. You're angry with me, remember? Isn't that why you even created this ridiculous little approval form? To avoid direct contact with me?"
It was true. Seeing her at the hospital had become increasingly painful. So he did something he never thought he'd do—he created more paperwork for himself.
"Well, I'm talking to you now, aren't I?" he said, snippily.
"Yes, unfortunately," Cuddy said. Then her shoulders slumped in defeat. "Go ahead, House. Do your biopsy."
"Thank you," he said. He started to storm out, then stopped in the doorway.
"Wait," he said, as if something had just occurred to him. "What's wrong with you?" His voice had changed quality, from combative, to nearly tender.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. When I came in, you looked really out of it. And you just caved on this biopsy way too quickly. Did something happen?"
She rolled her eyes a bit, annoyed at his ability to always read her.
"I don't want to talk about it."
He took a few steps toward her.
"Tell me," he said.
She hesitated.
"A friend died."
"What friend?"
"No one you know. Her name was Abigail Schroeder."
"Your lab partner in high school?"
She started a bit.
"How on earth do you remember that?"
"I don't know. You told me her name once, I guess. How did she die?"
"Car accident. She got side-swiped by a semi. The driver fell asleep at the wheel. They said she. . .died instantly."
He swallowed a bit.
"Cuddy, I'm sorry."
"She had two small children," Cuddy said. "Two little boys." And she put her head in her hands and, much to his horror, started to cry. House moved to her, his hands suspended over his shoulders uselessly, wanting to touch her, console her, but not sure if he should.
"Is there anything I can . . . do?" he said instead, withdrawing his hands.
She looked up—her lashes were beautifully wet, like some sort of close-up of raindrops on a blade of grass—and gave a wan smile. "No, I'm fine. I'm sorry. I thought I was all cried out. Guess not. You don't need to hover."
"I feel like you shouldn't be alone right now," he said, studying her.
She snorted a bit.
"Like you're so good at comforting me," she said. It was a cruel thing to say. She immediately regretted it.
"I'm sorry," she said. "That was totally unnecessary. I'm fine House. Go do your biopsy."
"I'll . . . try the nerve stimulation first," he said.
#####
Worried about her and frankly too distracted to sleep, he decided to stop by her house and check in on her that night.
When she answered the door, he saw that his concerns were founded. She was wobbly on her feet, and her breath smelled of alcohol.
"What are you doing here?"
"I was just. . .I. . was worried that you. . ."
But before he could even form a coherent sentence, she grabbed him and began to kiss him, roughly, wantonly.
He was so shocked that that his surprise synapses fired more quickly than his lust synapses.
"What are you doing?" he said.
"Shut up, House," she said, and she maneuvered him against a wall, devouring him, losing herself in his flesh.
He recognized what this was, because he had done it so many times himself—a way to distract from the pain (of all the methods, sex was possibly the most efficient—and certainly the most pleasurable.)
So he put aside his own doubts, his own shock, and kissed her back, felt that familiar electrical jolt of desire when his hand met her skin. His mouth moved from her lips to her neck to between her marvelous breasts. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. She let out a little sound—half an expression of desire and half impatient relief.
Never had chasing his own orgasm been so conflicted. He knew she was using him. But he also knew that he wanted her, badly (more than even before, because she had been his and had been cruelly taken away). So he put aside his doubts and lavished attention on every inch of her perfect body, sucking her, kissing her, stroking her, thrusting inside her deeply, an attempt to feel like they were once again an "us."
Afterward, he tried to hold her in his arms, but she pulled away.
"You should go," she said.
"I'd rather stay," he said. Three months of anger had floated away. He felt as madly, unconditionally in love with her as ever.
"But you can't," she said. "I want you to go."
He looked at her, hurt, but she was already gone—lying next to him in the bed but a million miles away.
"Okay," he said.
He got dressed, sullenly, waiting for her to say something: "Thank you." "Let's do this again." "You always know exactly what I need."
But instead she watched him, as impassively as a john watching his hooker leave a hotel room.
"Good night," she said.
######
The next day, as House was doing a differential, she hovered in the hallway, waiting for him.
He saw her, and a blush crawled up his neck.
"BRB," he said, stepping into the hall, as his team watched the scene with unchecked curiosity.
"I wanted to apologize for last night," she said.
"No need to apologize," he said.
"And I need you to understand that it was a mistake," she said, looking him in the eye. "I was very emotional, as you know. And drunk. And I was looking for. . ."
"A distraction?"
"Yeah."
"I understand," he said.
She bit her lip.
"It's not going to happen again. Do you understand that?"
"Yes."
"I regretted it immediately."
He folded his arms defensively, but didn't reply.
"And I'm very, very sorry if I've misled you in any way."
"You didn't," he lied.
"Good."
"Are we done?" he said, annoyed.
"Yes."
"Good, cause I gotta get back to my team. The nerve stimulation didn't work, by the way. It was a colossal waste of time." He scowled at her and went back into the DDx room.
######
Three days later, predictably, he was back at her doorstep.
She sighed a bit when she opened the door.
"What do you want, House?"
He shrugged.
"I was in the neighborhood," he said.
"And?"
"And just thought I'd swing by," he said. "See how you were."
"I'm fine," she said.
"Can I come in?" he said, peering into her living room.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"I'm thirsty," he said. "I drove all the way over here. You can't even get me a drink?"
"You just said you were in the neighborhood."
"Figure of speech," House said.
"House, what do you think is going on here?"
"I think I'm checking up on a friend."
"We're not friends."
"We were pretty friendly the other night," he said, raising his eyebrows a bit.
"I told you, that was a mistake."
"Why?"
"Because we're done. I broke up with you. With good reason. And everything you've done since the breakup has only reinforced that I did the right thing.
"But we're so good together," he said, reaching for her waist.
She backed away.
"No, we're not. House, go home. I'm serious. Listen to me. I'm sorry. Honestly I am. But what happened the other night is not going to happen again. Ever."
He started to say something in protest, then stopped.
"Fine," he said. And limped back to his bike.
######
That was May. In June, she would hear the rev of an engine, look out the window and see an orange blur come to a near stop, then speed away.
"You've got to stop driving by my house," she told him.
"I didn't!" he protested. But they both knew that she knew he was lying.
In July, House called her, half dead from his bathtub. Then, a few days later, they talked, really talked for the first time since the breakup and she felt so relieved, so grateful to him for releasing her from her burden of guilt, that she forced herself to look forward, and go on a date with Julia's friend.
And then, of course, it all went to hell.
######
"Jesus, Wilson. Would you stop calling me? The feds almost definitely have your phone bugged."
"House, did you even listen to any of my messages?"
"No, I assumed they were just you yelling a lot."
"You're not under arrest. The feds are not looking for you."
"What part of fugitive from justice didn't you understand?"
"House, Cuddy didn't press charges. She made a deal for you. You'll only need to do outpatient rehab and anger management classes."
"Bullshit."
"It's true."
"But…why? She must hate my guts right now."
"I don't know House. I'm as baffled as you are. Where are you anyway?"
House hesitated.
"Is this a trap? Is there a cop standing next to as we speak?"
"House. I'm your best friend. Yes, you shattered my wrist in 10 places and I needed reconstructive surgery. . ."
"Fuuuuuck."
"Yeah."
"Can you still play the violin?"
"Hilarious. I actually do surgery sometimes, in case you forgot."
"Have you regained full motility?"
"Not yet. But I will."
"Good," House said, sounding genuinely relieved. "I'll pay your medical bills. Needless to say."
"Needless to say," Wilson agreed. "But my extreme anger at you notwithstanding, I'm still your friend. I'm not going to turn you over to the cops."
"Oh no, because you would never do that," House cracked.
"That was different! That was a deal! I thought I was helping. . ." He stopped himself. "We've been through this before."
"Okay, maybe I believe that you can find it in your giant bleeding heart to forgive me. No way Cuddy doesn't want to see me burn," House said.
"Maybe she thinks you belong in rehab, not jail."
"She thinks I belong in a Russian Gulag."
"House, here's a thought: Come home and ask her why she chose to show mercy on you."
House scratched his head.
"How's her, um, dining room?"
"Totaled. She's staying with Julia while they fix it."
"And Rachel?"
"She's three. She thinks she's on vacation."
"And Boy Wonder?"
"What?"
"Cuddy still seeing that little dweeb?"
"House you need help," Wilson said. "Which is why you should come home. Now."
"It's nice here," House said, reflectively.
"Your apartment is here."
"I could sell it."
"Your medical practice is here."
"There are sick people everywhere. Even paradise."
"I'm here."
"That's why Steve Jobs invented the telephone."
"Cuddy is here."
House paused, looked out at the rippling waves of the ocean.
"I'll be on the next flight out."
#######
"Hi," House said, standing in Cuddy's office feeling completely ill-at-ease.
He'd been back in the States for a few days. He'd met with the lawyers and with the feds. The terms of his plea bargain were this: Outpatient rehab three days a week; anger management one day a week. ("But what if I'm angry about being sent to anger management class?" he had quipped.)
This was the first time he had seen her since he got back from Fiji.
"Hi," she said. She had a nearly invisible way of gathering her nerve when she was about to have a serious conversation—she would straighten her back a bit, clench her jaw, inhale. She did those things now.
"Close the door," she said.
He did, obediently, and sat across from her.
He realized that he should probably go first.
"I want to apologize to you," he said. "What I did was….well, frankly, it was insane. Rivaling, 'I see dead people' for the most insane moment of my life."
"Yes, it was."
"As is often the case when I do insane things, I was high as a fucking kite."
"I know."
"I'll do whatever it takes. Beg, grovel, rebuild your dining room with my bare hands. I just hope you can find in your heart to forgive me."
"I can't."
He looked up, surprised.
"Wha—?" he said. "Then why did you. . .why didn't you press charges?"
"Because…I'm pregnant."
[Sorry about the familiar cliffhanger. Circumstances so different here, I thought I could get away with it…And, spoiler alert, no miscarriages this time.]