Cuddy never saw herself as someone who ran away from her troubles.

But some situations were simply too toxic to be sustainable. So maybe it was running away, maybe it was the coward's way out—but she preferred to see it as removing herself and Rachel from an unhealthy situation. (What was that old line again about insanity again? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result? That, in a nutshell, was her relationship with House.)

So she didn't stick around to see how the story ended.

She simply took Rachel and left.

St. Louis was nice, friendly, unhaunted by ghosts. She liked the hospital a lot. She'd been living there for 8 months when she went to a party and met Noah. He was flirty, charming, attentive.

"They told me you were pretty," he said, pouring her a glass of white wine. "They didn't tell me you were a movie star."

Noah was, in many ways, the anti-House: Physically, they were complete opposites: Noah had a thatch of dark wavy hair and a full beard that was speckled with grey and he was broad shouldered and projected great strength. Plus, he was warm, avuncular, what the Jewish people called a mensch.

When Julia came to visit, she met Noah and pulled Cuddy aside.

"Doesn't Noah remind you of someone?" she whispered mirthfully.

"No," Cuddy said. "Who?"

"Dad, of course!" Julia said, shocked that Cuddy hadn't made the connection.

At first Cuddy vehemently disagreed, recoiled at the very thought. But then it dawned on her—of course she would turn to a father figure after her ordeal with House. Of course she would turn to a man who made her feel safe.

She talked to Wilson a couple times a month—kept peripheral tabs on House's progress. (He had been her obsession for 20 years—moved 500 miles away wasn't going to change that overnight.)

She knew that he had gotten out of prison, that he was living with that Green Card skank, that he had a new team—including a peculiar little Asian girl and a debutante do-gooder.

And, of course, House had found her. (Once that article in the St. Louis Journal ran, she was easy to track down.)

He sent her long, rambling letters that veered wildly from apologetic to angry to despondent and back again. He called her, usually when he was quite drunk, usually late at night, professing his undying love.

One night, House called at 2 am and Noah answered the phone.

He never called again.

More and more, Cuddy found herself thinking about Princeton—about her mother, who wasn't getting any younger, about the fact that she had been banished from her own home.

It wasn't fair that House got to stay, got to resume some semblance of his old life when she had been completely upended.

So when the head of board from PPTH phoned her, she took the call. And at dinner at the Prime Cut, she accepted their generous offer.

Noah was too enlightened a man to ask her to stay in St. Louis. It was her life, her career. But he couldn't leave his practice, either—he had a staff of his own. Plus his grown daughters lived in Missouri. His eldest, Sarah, was getting married in the spring.

So they decided to do the long distance thing. See how it worked out.

On that first day, she had stood outside House's office for at least 10 minutes, steeling her nerves, catching her breath. She had demonized him so much in her mind, she had practically turned him into Voldemort.

But he was just a man. When she saw him, all the old feelings flooded back to her: Love, anger, regret, sadness, even a bit of lust. His neck turned red when he saw her and he sputtered out an incoherent greeting and his eyes were wide and hopeful. She had given him so much power in her mind that she had forgotten. She was the one who had power over him. Always had.

She had faced the object of her fear and obsession head on and emerged unscathed. Now, she decided, they could finally both move on with their lives.

And then, a few months later, Wilson came to her office, looking stricken, and told her that he was dying. Her first thoughts were the usual: grief, sadness, disbelief.

But her second thoughts were, inevitably, all about House: She had always taken secret comfort in knowing that he had Wilson in his life—a decent man who understood him, believed in him, loved him unconditionally. If Wilson died, House would truly be an alone.

Not your problem, Lisa, she reminded herself. Not your problem.

####

The hospital's chaplain told her that the chapel was falling apart, in dire need of repairs. She decided to see for herself.

It was mid-afternoon, the chapel was quiet. She checked the altar, the pews, the statuary. A little worn with age, but hardly unworkable. She turned to leave. That was when she saw a figure sitting in the back pew, his head down—not quite in prayer, but in deep thought.

"Have you found God?" she said, ironically.

House looked up, a bit dazed.

"I'm hiding from my team," he said. "And this is the last place anyone would look."

"True that," she said.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"CEO stuff," she replied.

"Oh."

He was wearing a wool coat, even though it wasn't particularly cold in the room. He looked tired. He looked like he needed a hug.

"Well, I promise I won't rat you out to your team," she said, starting to leave.

Then she stopped.

"House. . .I've been meaning to come by and tell you: I'm really sorry about Wilson."

"That makes two of us," House said sadly.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"I doubt it."

She inhaled a bit.

"If there's anything I can do. . ." She hoped it sounded platitudinous, not sincere. She didn't really want to help him. More accurately: She did want to help him and was doing everything in her power to quash that impulse.

"You can help me convince him to do more chemo," House said bitterly.

"What?" Cuddy said, stepping toward him, genuinely confused. "Wilson told me the cancer was untreatable."

"Not untreatable," House said. "It's a long shot, but he won't even try."

"Why on earth not?"

"Because he wants to die in dignity, even though we all know that's never an option."

"That's madness," Cuddy said. She was so stunned by this development, she forgot that this was the longest conversation she and House had had in more than two years.

"Please tell him that." House said.

"I will," Cuddy said.

She began to leave again. Then looked over at House. His head was bent again.

"You coming?" she said.

He blinked at her.

"Coming where?" he said.

"To Wilson's office. If we show up together, as a united front, it'll have to affect him. He'll know we mean business."

"Really?" House said.

"Yes!" Cuddy said, spurred on by righteous indignation. "He needs to know that we're not going to stand idly by while he kills himself."

House stood up, grabbed his cane.

"Cuddy," he said. "Thank you."