A/N-Thanks so much to everyone who is reading and to all who reviewed the last chapter: iridescentZEN, lenasti16, IHeartHouseCuddy, OldSFfan, BabalooBlue, LizLo, KiwiClare, linda12344, JLCH, ammeboss, Libratine, jaybe61, freeasabird14, housebound, LoveMyHouse, LittleGreg, LapizSilkwood, grouchysnarky, precioussoulandsweetcheeksin1, bere, BJAllen815, CacauHousemaniaca, Huddy4Ever, jkarr, RochelleRene, Suzieqlondon, chebelle, Mrs. Bock, CaptainK8, Jane Q. Doe, byte size, Abby, Boo's House, HuddyGirl, Alex and the Guests.

Three updates in a week's time…it's been awhile since I've gotten that much posted. I'll try to get something up during the weekend, but I can't promise anything because things will be really busy over the next few days.

-The Field-

As House left Cuddy's, Arlene tried to stop him. He jerked his arm away from her hand and growled, "It's under control. I'll be back tomorrow."

He was out the door and on his bike, his helmet on his head but not secured, and he was leaving that place with remarkable speed for a man with a cane. Going only far enough to no longer be able to see the home, he stopped his bike on the shoulder of the road. Making his way into the brush, he braced his arm against a tall tree and leaned against it while his head reeled. He stopped there to pee because he didn't even feel like asking to use the bathroom; he didn't want to do anything that required him to spend another moment at the scene of Cuddy's surrender.

He breathed in deeply, roughly, irritated that he'd spent so many nights dreaming of freedom, and, so far, freedom seemed far worse than incarceration. He transferred his thoughts to the practical matters at hand, because it was the only way to get back on his bike. He had a plan to set into motion.

Cuddy hated the thing that her life had become, something so foreign and distant from where she had been only a few years earlier. Since she became ill, she watched her daughter cry over the illness, saw the devastation and worry in the child's eyes, and, as a mother, it nearly destroyed her. Cuddy wished her child did not have to ponder sickness, death and questions of an afterlife at such a tender age. In the previous three months, in spite of all of the concerns and realities that surrounded them, both mother and daughter offered smiles and words of hope as they tried to find strength in each other.

After House left, Cuddy asked Rachel if they could read together. They watched one of the girl's favorite movies, ordered food that Rachel loved, and they tried to get lost in an evening that most people would have considered ordinary, but, for Cuddy, it was a last chance to enjoy the relationship.

That night, the girl fell asleep in the recliner. Cuddy held the child as she mourned the loss of her life and the pain her daughter would suffer. She didn't sleep for longer than a few moments at a time, wanting to savor every single minute she had left while her mind searched for validation that she was making the right decision.

House was there early. He hadn't really slept, there wasn't time and even if there would have been enough time, he doubted he would have slept well. When he walked through the front door of Cuddy's home, Rachel was standing in the living room, getting ready to leave. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, with a small smile on her face. She approached slowly, dragging her wheeled suitcase behind her. "Hi," she said softly.

House looked down uncertainly at the child, answering, "Hi."

"Good luck fixing Mom," Rachel said, waving as she walked away like it wasn't odd to see him again. He wasn't even sure if she really knew who he was.

"Thanks," he answered, pondering the fact that the girl was walking past him with so little alarm, innocently unaware that the man standing in her hallway was there to help her mother die. He could put it more politely and state, with complete accuracy, that he was just there to provide a code, and Cuddy's intentions were her own business. In the end, those words were simply a prettier explanation for what he was actually there to do.

Arlene stood next to him after Rachel went outside. "I told her you were coming to help her mother. Do you need anything from me before I leave?" the older woman asked.

"The leaving will be plenty."

"My number is in Lisa's phone, if you want to reach me."

"Thank god, I'm sure you know how much I'll miss you."

She scowled but answered calmly, "Thank you for this."

"Don't thank me," House shook his head as he watched the door close, adding once he was alone, "I'm not even sure if there's anything I can do."

He walked into Cuddy's room, bracing his cane against the wall and continuing cautiously toward her. She stared out the window and said, "I wasn't sure if you would come back."

"I said I would."

"Yea, you did," she replied as Lily walked in the room.

The plan went off easily, Lily increased the morphine allowance and House saw the security code that was entered. Cuddy sent the woman home for the rest of the day.

"Did you get the code?" Cuddy asked once they were alone.

"Yup," House answered, punching in the numbers and testing them, blocking her view so she still didn't have the code for herself. "You sure you want to do this?"

"I don't want to do this. I have to do this."

"No, you don't."

"Do you have any idea what this has done to Rachel? The sleepovers she gave up to be near me because she was afraid to leave me alone, the things she's learned, the realities she has already faced. She barely has time for friends or to play because she's so worried about me. It's so…unfair."

"What's unfair is quitting on her."

"I'm not quitting, I'm trying to give her the next few months…to let her start the rest of her life. I'm trying to save her additional painful memories that she'll have to weed through to get to the good memories. And Mom…she's aged at least five years over the last year. She spends all of her time helping me, looking out for Rachel. I know she's a pain in the ass, but I don't know what I would have done without her. She…stood by me when I was sick. They're giving up their real lives to help sustain my hopeless one. That is unfair."

"They don't think it's hopeless. They don't want you to do them any favors if it means giving up."

"You wouldn't understand, I can't stand to be responsible for causing other people so much suffering."

He blurted out an angry scoff, "You can't possibly be serious. Sitting there, acting like a fucking martyr when you didn't even hesitate to jam a stake through me. I remember. Or don't I count as one of the humans?"

"Should we discuss the irony that you're here now when I'm dying but you couldn't stand by me back when you were my boyfriend and I thought I was dying? I needed you then. I needed you clean and there."

His voice was low and angry, tightly controlled because the feelings were there again, just barely held under his control, "I tried. You knew how fucked up I was before you showed up, claiming to love me. You should have let me relapse before giving me a taste of what my life could have been. That would have been the right thing to do instead of leading me to believe that things could actually be different…that maybe I could be just a little bit happy."

"We could have found a way to get back to normal until you made sure we couldn't."

"Sometimes having a definitive answer…even if it isn't the answer you hoped for…is better than holding onto hope."

"You want to blame everything that went wrong on me. But you can't just conveniently ignore the complete insanity you displayed," she argued, "no matter what led up to that point. There was no acceptable excuse for your behavior."

"I never forgot that I was insane. Everyone knows I'm insane. But you…you're just as fucked up as I am. You act like you have it all together because you are damn good at making it look that way. But I know you."

"Well," she said calmly, "we'll have a very definitive answer soon."

She didn't anticipate the wounded look and then the aura of defeat that seemed to emanate from him for an instant before he went blank again. "Why prolong the inevitable, if it is indeed inevitable?" he asked.

"You're right," she bit back.

He answered calmly, "I'll do it for you."

"I thought you didn't want to. I thought you didn't even want me to ask."

"Why die alone when you can die with someone you hate?" he questioned as he waited for her hesitation.

She just nodded, thinking things through. He reached into his jacket, producing a syringe. "What's that?" she asked.

"Narcan. In case you change your mind. I want to be prepared for the moment when you suddenly come to your senses."

"Why are you willing to do this?"

"Hoping for last minute death bed sex."

"I'm sure that cancer-ridden is a very hot look on me, but you're probably covered in various unsavory microbes from whatever hooker or hookers you've been screwing, so I'll pass."

He sat back, folded his hands over his abdomen and looked at her.

"Why are you doing this? I just need the code," she said, "and then you can leave."

"Maybe I want to make sure my face is the last one you see as you close you eyes."

"Maybe," she said, angrily shaking her head, "Or…," her anger turned to fury when a realization dawned on her, "You fucking bastard. Are you going to drug me and then do the damn biopsy anyway? You are, aren't you?"

His eyes darted a few times before settling on hers, they were at a standoff, waiting for the other to draw. "I've heard from others that making major medical decisions when the patient is completely incapacitated has its perks," he finally said, ending the silence.

"So now we're digging up relics?"

"Only relics that are extremely pertinent to the current discussion."

"I should have known that you would never let me do this so easily. Not without trying to bully me into changing my mind."

"Bully you? Yes, doctors trying to convince patients to live is such unconventional cruelty."

"The fact that you're willing to do it against my will…to violate my person…is the part that is particularly upsetting to me," she yelled, her entire body filled with exasperation. "You of all people should understand my perspective on this."

"I wouldn't have had to violate your person if you would have agreed to the biopsy."

"It's not surprising. I shouldn't even be surprised, because what you want is far more important than what's best for my mother or Rachel or me."

"What's best for you and your mother and Rachel…is for you to get better."

"Why do you care?"

"I like to prevent stupidity of all kinds."

"I'd think you'd like the chance to be completely free of me."

"You think that you dying would free me?" he asked, staring into her.

She hesitated, feeling uncertain and confused, and she tried to avoid a slight stumble in her words, "You have four days. I'll do the biopsy, but I want everything resolved before Rachel gets back."

"Good," he nodded exaggeratedly.

"I'm not doing it for you."

"I would never expect you to do anything for my benefit."

"What does that mean?"

"Forget it. You really want to die, don't let me stop you."

"I don't want to die," she answered, getting up and beginning to pace in a way that strangely gave him some hope because she seemed more animated and lively again. Standing over where he sat, she pointed a finger in his direction, "I want to live. But I don't want to suffer. I don't want to suck all of the joy out of my daughter's life for several more months of useless fighting. There's no point."

House looked up from his seated position, the anger between them nearly tangible, and then the doorbell rang. "If it's treatable…"

"And if it isn't?" she retorted.

"You can add that to your long list of resentments," he said, adding while he left to answer the door, "By the way, you look much less dead when you're angry."

House opened the front door, waving Chase into the hallway. "You live here?" Chase asked.

"Nope. Patient's here."

"Alright. I've got everything on your list, but I have to get this portable ultrasound back by tonight, or they're going to notice it's missing."

"Would I let you get in any trouble because of me?" House asked, signaling Chase down the hall.

"Yea, you would."

"That hurts," House said, clutching his heart while wearing a slightly evil grin as he opened the door to the room where Cuddy was waiting.

"Oh my god!" Chase exclaimed, "you're kidding?"

"The patient," House answered calmly, walking over and gesturing at Cuddy.

"House, this is a bad idea. You need to think this through," the younger man warned.

"I'm a doctor. This is a case like any other case. Forty-six year-old female," House began.

"Stop," Chase insisted, "I can take this case and you can go back to…doing whatever you do. The two of you here together is…is…"

"Insanity?" House commented happily, "I wouldn't have it any other way. Now, forty-six year-old female, history of stage two endometrial cancer, treated successfully with surgery and chemo."

Cuddy sat in her recliner, still tense, her eyes unrelentingly glaring ahead, ready for a fight. Chase approached, "Cancer? Cuddy, I'm so sorry to hear that," he offered, his hand reaching comfortingly to her shoulder while he stood near her.

"This is the patient," House clarified and turned the computer screen toward Chase so he could see the scans and draw his own conclusions, "three months ago."

"Cancer's back," Chase shook his head.

House blurted out, "You let a guy be head of diagnostics, and he thinks he's some kind of genius."

"I'm a damn good diagnostician," Chase interjected.

"Prove it. Help us diagnose something here that isn't cancer."

"What if it is cancer?"

"That answer would be boring and the options much more limited. So instead of the boring, limited option, let's look for what else it might be."

"So you think it isn't cancer?" Chase asked disbelievingly.

"That's what we're checking."

"Looks like cancer. Where's her blood work? What did her oncologist say?"

"There is no current blood work and no oncologist. They found the mass, and she gave up. I'm here because I love to help people who don't want to be helped."

Chase looked at him suspiciously and then turned his attention to Cuddy, "You gave up?"

"Best case scenario is that I can eke out a few more months, maybe a year, and then it's back to this anyway," Cuddy replied clinically.

"But if it isn't cancer…?" House proposed.

"What is it that you're hoping to find?" Chase asked.

Cuddy gave Chase the rundown of her recent history, and the three conducted a differential diagnosis on one of their own. After Chase's first idea was shot down, he said to House, "You already think you know what it is? Don't you?"

"I know what would be better than cancer," House answered.

Chase waited for the rest of the explanation, "What's that?"

"Autoimmune pancreatitis. Causes masses in the head of the pancreas…where hers is. It's often mistaken for cancer because it presents similarly."

Chase weighed the possibilities for a moment, "We'll run a basic blood panel, check IgG4 for elevated levels and do a biopsy of the mass."

House looked at Chase with sheer disappointment, "I feel like you've forgotten how I do this. What have you done to my department? You run tests, and I'll start treatment and see if she responds."

"We can wait for the results," Cuddy answered.

"I'm sure you want this resolved before Rachel is back," House countered, "We can start to treat while we wait for the results."

"Where are we going to do the biopsy?" she asked with some alarm.

House looked around the room and smiled fakely at her.

"Here? No," she responded immediately, shaking her head.

"I was going to do it here if you were unconscious. Except for you being less unconscious…and more willing…what's the difference?"

"What does he mean?" Chase asked.

"He was going to drug me and do it against my will," Cuddy explained.

"I'm sure he wouldn't…," Chase looked between them, admitting, "Yea, OK…he would."

House, ignoring Chase, addressed Cuddy, "Where are we going to go? Do you want to take the two hour drive down to Plainsboro? It's not like we can walk into a local hospital and ask to borrow a room and a long, pointy object. Look, you were willing to die earlier, a little biopsy isn't nearly as deadly as death."

"With my luck it won't be cancer, and then I'll die from an infection."

"Because I regularly had patients die from biopsies," House sarcastically jabbed.

"They were at the hospital," she countered with ire.

"More germs in hospitals than here."

Chase held his hands up, "Both of you, stop. Meet me tonight at ten in the parking garage. Level three, by the elevator. I'll…find a room. And no noticeable arguments between the two of you while you're there. Don't let anyone see you." He pointed at House, "It is not your department," then pointed at Cuddy, "and it's not your hospital. While you're there, you do what I say, OK? It's my ass on the line."

House nodded and Cuddy answered, "Definitely," but Chase looked uncertain.

"Fantastic." Chase addressed Cuddy while he gathered his things, "Look…while you're there, we'll do an endoscopic ultrasound to get the biopsy. That way, we can insert a stent to clear up the jaundice. Because even if it is autoimmune and responds to corticosteroids, it could take anywhere from several days to a couple of weeks to shrink the mass enough to improve your symptoms. You'll feel a little better…even if it is cancer."

Chase was gone after a few minutes, leaving a few of the supplies House had requested, including the corticosteroids to begin treatment for an autoimmune disorder. House sat on the hassock next to Cuddy's recliner and looked at the IV site. "Should probably start a new one," he commented, grabbing a packet to start a new IV.

"I guess they should have left the port," she answered, dropping her head back against the recliner.

"Are you…OK? Any symptoms you haven't mentioned?" he asked uncomfortably.

"I'm just tired."

"I can't think of a better way to exhaust yourself than by arguing with me."

She didn't answer for a few minutes while she watched his thumb drag along her arm while he chose a new spot for the IV. It felt strange to feel his thumb on her forearm, all at once clinical, familiar and bizarre. He raised his eyes and she looked almost like she wasn't angry at him for that moment. "What?" he asked.

"If this doesn't work. If it is cancer…"

"I'll start this one here," he said, lining the needle up well away from a good vein.

"What? Why?" she asked, jerking her arm away.

"Because I'm an asshole."

"Here," she griped, trying to pull the equipment from his hand, "I'll do it myself."

He moved his hand and the supplies out of her reach, "I've got it. Just relax." He offered, "If it makes you feel better, I'll let you boss me around. I'm sure you miss it. Where do you want it?"

She found a spot just below her wrist, "Start it here, please. I'm gonna run out of veins."

"No you won't. In a few days, you aren't going to be hooked up anymore. Because you're going to feel like eating, and we'll switch to pills for the steroids once things start to improve. You won't need morphine because the pain will go away when the inflammation goes down. Half of your weakness is the depression and malnourishment. This is temporary."

Laughing unhappily, she answered, "You're never one for false hope. This must really look bad."

"It isn't false hope. I just know when my diagnoses are right. I'm confident, not hopeful. Huge difference."

"If this is cancer – ouch! Dammit, House," she yelled, looking down angrily at the tiny prick marks in her skin. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Shut up about the what-ifs. It's wasted energy." He nearly smirked when he looked at her, "You look angry."

"Yes, I'm angry, stop being a jerk and let me do it myself."

"I'm a professional, I can do this. I'm just out of practice and little unsteady."

"Fine, I'll wait and talk after the sharp object is out of your hand."

"I'll just get another sharp object."

She whispered sadly, "I can't read you at all. Are you angry or are you hurt? Cause I think you sometimes still seem bitter and hurt and sad, and sometimes you just seem pissed off. And then sometimes it seems like…maybe you missed me. I can't pick which one."

He calmly and silently started the IV and taped everything in place so it wouldn't become dislodged. She thought he was going to ignore the question. He stood to start the steroids and while he was still staring at his work, he said, "Aren't you all of those things?"

She turned toward him with a subdued and sleepy expression, "Yea, I am. All of those things…among others."

"And why can't I be all of those things?"

She shrugged. "I'm still so fucking mad at you, even though you're here, and trying to help me…I'm still mad. And it still hurts like everything happened yesterday. And I am so, so fucking angry that you were going to run tests that I didn't consent to. You were immediately willing to violate my wishes because you wanted to."

"OK," he answered, unconcerned. "If it makes you feel better, I'm still pissed at you too. And it still hurts like it was yesterday. I guess we finally have something in common."

"You know what's worse? There's a part of me that is glad that you are here. It's almost…good to see you. I shouldn't feel that way." His eyes skimmed along her face without any sort of decipherable hints as to what he was thinking, so she continued, "Why are you doing this? Why didn't you leave yesterday and put this all behind you? Is this guilt?"

"This is not guilt. I would…do some things differently now, but I can't change the things I did or the things you did or anything that came after that. If we're going to play, this is the field we have to play on. There is nothing we can say and nothing we can do that will ever change that." He adjusted the controls so that she would receive the proper dosage of the medication, "I can't sit here while you give up and wait to die, not without considering all other reasonable possibilities first. I'll let you sleep until it's time for us to go." House lumbered toward the door, almost as tired as she seemed to be, and he added, "It's…almost good to see you too."