I know it's usually a mistake to add characters in a fanfiction (Cuddy's mother, Dr. Miscolski) but trust me, they're very minor. Forgive me?

Cuddy eyed the grapefruit sitting on her mother's table with some longing, but now was no time to eat. She tore her gaze away as quickly as it had occurred, and set her slate blue orbs on her mother instead, who was half-pacing, half-ambling through the kitchen.

It was Sunday. Normally, a Sunday meant a few office hours at work, maybe some overtime, if she could fit it in, and then a quiet evening at home; perhaps occasional working on the computer while Rachel played in the other room.

But today, Cuddy had fulfilled her new routine as of late- visiting her mother. She hadn't really ever been close with her, especially since she had moved out of the house to go to medical school, and her mother. . . wasn't her first choice, sadly enough, to be helping out with what she was doing. But she wasn't the last choice, either. And it was convenient. Convenience. That was all she needed.

"And you're finding out when?" Her mother asked, still fumbling around with the cabinets, seemingly half-interested.

"Soon," Cuddy said gently, bringing her long fingernails to rest on the tabletop. She tapped them against the marble impatiently, looked down, and then pursed her lips, unsure of what exactly to say. Her mother had known what she was doing from the beginning; but this would make it the first time that she had been so involved.

Cuddy rarely talked to her mother anymore; she was too busy. What did that mean, though? In terms of family. . . what did that mean? She would be lying if the thought never crossed her mind. But she always pushed it away and buried herself deeper into work.

But no matter, she still loved her mother. And she couldn't go to House. Not this time. So who else would she have gone to? It was only natural. It was only natural to need help once in a while, too. Cuddy knew that, but it was still somewhat strange to her when she had to experience it.

"I'm supposed to wait seven to nine days, if I want the most likely results."

"Hasn't it been more than that?" Her mother asked casually, not looking at her daughter.

"No. It's been exactly eight days."

"Oh. Well, shouldn't you find out as soon as possible? You're a doctor, Lees. You know-"

"Yes, mom. I know, I know," Cuddy said, bringing her fingers up to massage her temples. "I'll find out. Don't worry about me, okay? Just do your part and carry on with your life."

Her mother suddenly stopped cleaning the cupboards and looked at her, a serious expression on her features. "You can't avoid things you're afraid of. You can't run from what you can't deal with. They're inevitable."

"I'm not running from anything," Cuddy protested; but bit her lip after she said so. . . she was afraid. She was very afraid. "Why would you say that? That doesn't even make sense."

She never ran from things she was afraid of. Not Lisa Cuddy. If anything, she welcomed new challenges; she welcomed the unknown, and any chance to prove herself. Her mother couldn't have been more wrong- she really didn't know her at all, did she?

Slightly irritable now, Cuddy got up from the chair. She was about to walk away when she looked at her mother, who was still indeed staring her down. Their eyes met, and she studied them. Suddenly, for the first time in a long while, Cuddy realized just how old her mother looked. She looked tired, worn down, and alone. Her gray hair was frizzy and fell around her face; her eyes were old and had absolutely no light to them. There seemed to be more wrinkles on her composure than ever before. Cuddy's expression softened, and she looked away. How long had it been? How long had she looked this way?

"Come here, Rachel," she said, walking into the other room and grabbing the coat hanging over a kitchen chair. "Let's go."

"Where are you going?" Her mother asked briskly, watching Cuddy walk into the other room.

"I'm going back home. I just realized I have some more papers to file for the Radiology students. Grading. You know."

"No, I don't know," her mother said; her expression hardening. "Lisa, you need to handle your situation like a big girl."

Cuddy's brows moved closer together in a dull frustration. Her mouth went thin, and she was at a loss for words. No, not a loss. . . rather a restraint of words. This was her mother she was talking to.

"I don't know what you're talking about, mom," she settled with, shaking her head dismissively and looking down toward her coat; diverting her gaze from her mother's stern one. "Don't worry about me. I think I know what I'm doing, alright?" She began to put it on as if everything was normal, as if this conversation didn't make her tongue itch and feel as though scalding water was penetrating her throat. Couldn't her mother tell that she was doing everything in her power to make things go well? Everything she could possibly do- worrying about it all the time? Didn't her mother know how important this was to her? Her mother didn't know her. Her mother hadn't known her since she was twelve years old.

"Well, who do you have to blame for that other than yourself?"

When Cuddy arrived home, it was around nine o' clock. The house was dark and gloomy. Picking Rachel up and letting her rest against her shoulder (as she had fallen asleep in the car) and holding her keys in her other hand, she fumbled with the lock until it opened. She wanted to get inside as quickly as possible. It had been a while since she had left home all day, holding the job that she did, and she wanted to make sure everything was going to be ready for work tomorrow afternoon.

Her message machine was blinking, the red light mechanically reappearing and disappearing into the was the first thing that she noticed, out of habit. Setting Rachel down gently on the couch, along with her coat, she walked across the room. She was about to push the button in when something stopped her. She contemplated.

House. Had to be. Calling to bother her.

"Stop being childish, Lisa."

Her small moment of suspicion passed, and she pushed it before she could change her mind and go to sleep herself. The machine informed her in its monotone voice that she had two new messages. The first was from the hospital Pharmacist; she erased this without further ado, but the second made her pause and listen intently.

"Dr. Cuddy, this is Beth Miscolski, from the office. I'm calling to confirm your blood test tomorrow. The appointment is at nine in the morning at Princeton-Plainsboro. Thank you for taking the time to listen, and good luck."

End of messages.

Cuddy pursed her lips, stood for a moment, and then erased this one with great hesitance. But it did not leave her unaffected. It was happening, it was real, and it was soon.

She went to bed after this. And the next morning, she didn't go in for her blood test. Not because she forgot, or because she was afraid. . . not because she wanted to prolong the inevitable, as she knew that would be dangerous and stupid. . . but because she wanted to figure it out on her own. She was an endocrinologist, after all.