A/N-Thank you so much for your follows and reviews, and thank you to all who have left comments since the last chapter: JLCH, jkarr, ammeboss, Huddylovelover, IHeartHouseCuddy, Huddy4Ever, OldSFfan, vicpei1, Suzieqlondon, KiwiClare, CaptainK8, Guest, lenasti16, BJAllen815, freeasabird14, Abby, precioussoulandsweetcheeksiin1, HuddyGirl, Alex, Boo's House, LoveMyHouse, BabalooBlue, ikissedtheLaurie, LapizSilkwood, dnkj, Jane Q. Doe, grouchysnarky, chebelle and linda12344.

Sorry for the delay, but here's the next part. I'm guessing the next part will be up around Thursday, but if i can get it finished earlier, i will.

-Irrelevant-

When Cuddy woke, she seemed a bit refreshed, but by the time she was finished showering and dressing to go to the hospital, her fatigue was already showing. She enjoyed the momentary freedom of being unchained from the IV while they traveled. Although he joked about her hopping on the back of his bike, they took her comfortable four-door family car. He thought she almost looked at the bike longingly. "You liked riding, didn't you?" he almost accused while they buckled up in the safety of her car.

"Maybe a little," she answered absently as she slumped into her seat to rest.

"Once they get the stent in, you won't feel so tired. If you're a good little patient, I'll take you out for a ride."

"I don't know."

"What's not to know?"

"Not sure if I can trust you…in a vehicular sense."

"Says the person who wants to die," he countered while she scowled, "are you sure you get the goal of euthanasia?"

Their argument fell silent as they drove. He was just pulling onto the highway when she looked at him and cocked her head while she tried to interpret what she was seeing, "Join a biker gang?"

"What?" he asked, stunned and turning to glance at her, trying to keep his focus on the road.

"Never thought you were the tattoo type. What's the significance?"

He looked at his wrist, to the place where the bandage he had once had in place was pulled away. "I had a bad day."

"So you got ink?"

"There was a guy, and he wanted a favor. I refused. So he tried to make it look like I was a rat so that I'd do what he wanted. Some people believed that I actually was a rat, so they gave me amateur ink to mark me so other people would know."

"Were you a…rat?"

"No!"

"That doesn't make sense," she countered.

"Once people thought I was a snitch, I had a very large target on my back. He knew I'd need some sort of protection. And I did."

"You just…let them tattoo you?"

He sneered, "Yea, I sat back and watched. Boy was it great fun. I can't wait to get another one." He slowly blinked his eyes, his lip snarling just a little while he remembered. "If enough people hold you still…or threaten things that are much, much worse than being tattooed, you'll find yourself accepting certain situations that you normally would resist. I'm a middle-aged cripple without any allies…pretty easy target."

"Stuff like that doesn't really happen," she shook her head, "does it? I always assumed that sort of stuff was…fiction."

"Well, maybe your cell block was nicer than mine. What do you think it's like in there, Cuddy? Do you think they give out puppies to all of the inmates and we sit around campfires and talk about our feelings until we're rehabilitated? This place I just left…made the first place look like summer camp. And believe me, I didn't make any friends during summer camp either."

She pointed at the lower end of the symbol, where the ink disappeared into an angry wound, "You're trying to scrape the ink out?"

"If you can get to the bottom layer of skin…"

"You could get it lasered off. It would be safer…less painful."

"They weren't willing to do unwanted tattoo removal for inmates on taxpayer dollars while I was in prison, and I really wanted to get rid of it so people would be less eager to kill me. Ironically, since I've been released from prison, I've been a little busy trying to stop you from killing yourself."

His eyes bored at the road ahead. She popped open the glove box and pulled out a first aid kit, grabbing his wrist and bringing it over to her while he used his left hand to steer the car. "It's going to get infected if it hasn't started to already."

"It's fine," he pulled away immediately.

"I'm letting you help me…let me help you. Give me your fucking arm," she ordered roughly, somewhat surprised when he hesitantly complied.

He accepted the medical portion of the touch, the clinical and necessary contact between them while she replaced the bandage as he drove. Then her fingers skated softly over the back of his hand. It was a touch that had nothing to do with his wound. It was the first time someone had offered him affectionate contact in a very long time. It felt so nice that it hurt.

He started to pull away and the fingers of her other hand slipped under his wrist to hold him still. "House?" her voice sounded softly.

He grunted a response.

"I didn't want anything like this to happen to you. When I pressed charges, I wanted you to face the consequence of your actions, but I never wanted anything like-"

"You didn't do it, so don't feel guilty," he interrupted uncomfortably. "Besides, I'm a two-time loser. This was from time number two and that trip had nothing to do with you."

Her fingers slipped away from his arm and returned to her lap. "You and I…what a team, huh?"

He glanced over, "What you do you mean?"

"After all of the finger pointing is over…our entire relationship can be boiled down to this giant pool of hurt and anger. It's hard to remember there ever being anything else. We have this long history of reasons to hate each other and-"

"I wouldn't be in this car if I hated you and you know that because any oncologist would take or recommend the same course of action that I'm taking. You don't need a diagnostician, but you do need me. Not that it matters much. If you have your way…we only need to avoid doing more harm to each other for," he looked at his watch, "three and a half more days. How much can happen in three and a half days?"

"True," Cuddy answered, appearing almost stunned when he reminded her of her own deadline.

The rest of the drive was mostly silent. Cuddy slept intermittently and they were both contemplative. When they parked in the hospital parking garage, Chase was waiting for them. Under different circumstances, it could have been fun, or at least interesting, to see the hospital again. They entered through a service door, winding through the halls of the hospital to the procedure rooms. One room was already set up for them and an obviously new and somewhat eager doctor was waiting there.

Chase looked at the young doctor, "Eaton, not a word to anyone. Especially not Foreman or Taub. Got it?"

"And you'll consider me for the position?" she asked in an almost bubbly way.

"Whose position?" House asked, "Who left?"

"Who are you?" Eaton asked, looking him over somewhat suspiciously and then focusing on the cane.

She started to grin, widely, until Chase broke her concentration, "I won't consider anyone for my team that I can't trust."

"Got it," she smiled, directing Cuddy quickly behind the curtain, whispering, "I guess we don't have a lot of time."

"What's with the new girl?" House asked Chase while Eaton was prepping Cuddy.

"She wants a spot on my team. She's like an endoscopic sharpshooter. Great with DaVinci…all sorts of neat little tricks up her sleeve. Also incredibly smart and everyone else feels the need to prove they're smarter than her. For some reason, she's very threatening to the rest of the gang."

"A motivational fellow," House nodded approvingly.

Chase leaned closer, "Are you sure you want to be involved in this case? I can handle it from here, I'll keep you informed."

"It's just a case…a way to stay busy."

"Right," Chase answered with obvious disbelief. "Keep your hands off during the procedure. If something goes wrong, the last thing you want is to be involved in a procedure where something bad happens to the woman you were jailed for assaulting."

"When's the last time something this simple has gone wrong for you? Maybe I should do it myself," House threatened. "Look, I'm staying. I might see something."

"You used to count on me to see whatever needed to be seen. I've done probably hundreds of procedures while you sat somewhere, doing god knows what, waiting for the results."

House was consumed with thought, no longer participating in the conversation.

"House?" Chase asked reluctantly when there was no answer.

In the next breath, Cuddy was ready. Chase and Eaton quickly discussed the case and the procedure, and House stood near Cuddy while she smiled stiffly at him, "You'll be here to take me back home?"

"Take you home?"

"Yea. Will you be back in time to take me home? I'm assuming they'll use light sedation. I should be able to leave within a few hours."

"I'm staying. While they're looking around, if there is something else to see…I want to see it."

"For the whole procedure?"

"Yea."

"I don't know," she hesitated uncomfortably.

"I don't have the time or resources to run a lot of tests or to keep you here under observation until I figure everything out. I have one night at this hospital to get all of the information that I need."

"It's just weird…you hanging out while I'm like that."

"I want to make sure I don't miss anything. Don't take it as anything other than that."

Chase and Eaton began walking over toward their patient and Cuddy nudged House's arm, "Thank you for your…help," she offered nervously.

"You aren't actually worried about a biopsy, are you?" House scoffed.

"It's not the biopsy that worries me. It's the results. I don't want to have to listen to them try to tactfully tell me how bad things are, using the same words and methods we've all been taught to use. The last time, I could hear the trainers from every seminar about dealing with patients and sickness or dying. It didn't feel understanding or sympathetic. It felt…patronizing and rehearsed."

House searched for an answer for a minute and then whispered, "I'll answer when they call with the results. If it's bad, we'll pick up where we left off earlier, and you can pretend like none of this ever happened."

Eaton approached, explaining that they would use light sedation and that Cuddy would be out only as long as it took to gather a sample and insert a stent. As Eaton finished up, House commented, conspiratorially, "People under light sedation can still talk…they're also remarkably honest in that state, aren't they?"

"Often," Eaton answered, "but most patients can't speak with a scope shoved down their throats."

That was the last thing Cuddy remembered.

She woke and saw House sitting on the edge of her bed, repeatedly tying a long string of plastic tubing. His eyes found hers and she had an unmistakably peaceful look on her face. "You stayed?" she asked.

"Looks like. I didn't see anything except the mass we already knew was there and a lot of inflammation. The mass doesn't look any larger from what I could tell. I didn't see any new tumors. Which is good."

She rested for a moment then her eyes popped open. "House?" she yawned, "Where's your Vicodin?"

"You need some?"

Shaking her head, she tried to steady her gaze on him, "I haven't seen you take any."

"Vicodin and I," he breathed like he was rolling through memories, "have parted ways."

"Are you serious?"

"Yup."

She smiled, just a little, and slipped back into sleep.

When she woke up, House was gone. She was filled at once with a sense of disoriented sadness, rebuking herself for feeling unhappy that he was gone. She slowly moved her legs down off of the bed, and then she saw House's cane was still with her. When he left the room, he braced his cane against the chair. She guessed it was his way of showing her that he would be back and that he couldn't have gone far.

Stepping carefully to the other end of the room after testing her feet, she found the jeans that she'd worn when she arrived and pulled them over her legs, buttoning the button and looking down at the gap left between her waist and her clothing. Leaving the gown around her upper body, she tightened the ties, grabbed the IV pole and began to walk, bringing House's cane so he wouldn't have to try to make it back to the room without it for support.

After a ride on the elevator, she went down the dimly lit hallway where House's office had once been. The entire wing was quiet and would be for a few more hours until the department heads who occupied the space would be in to begin their day. Trying the door to the diagnostics office and finding it locked, she continued down the hall. As she walked farther, she saw a soft light brightening the floor outside of the office of the head of oncology.

When she walked in, House was stretched out on the red sofa that had replaced Wilson's old sofa. He looked over at her, then stared back up at the ceiling and mumbled, "Even my cane looks better on you."

"I thought you might want it," she answered, leaning and partially sitting on the desk in the room, "it's a long walk."

After few minutes of silence while Cuddy's eyes wandered the room, he said, "Who the fuck is this guy? It looks worse than when Wilson decorated it."

Cuddy looked behind her on the desk and found the name plate. Holding it in her hands, she read, "Erika Benson."

"You know her?"

"Never heard of her."

"Her sofa sucks."

"It's weird, isn't it?" Cuddy asked. "You and I were probably two of the most feared and respected people to ever walk these halls. Who ever thought that we would be irrelevant in this hospital?"

"Guess they found a way to go on without us."

"We really did define a lot here. And when we were gone, the hospital just picked up and continued on without us. All of those years I thought this place couldn't make it without me. It's so strange when you think you're really…part of something, and then you realize that it's just fine without you. Like after you die, sure people mourn you for a little while and then they move on…they hope that time heals all wounds and eventually the memory of you is less clear, less painful. They hope that the horrible pain of loss becomes the dull ache of missing and eventually fades to those occasional pangs of memory."

"Do you miss it here?" he asked.

"Oh yea, definitely. People joked, but this place was my baby long before I had Rachel. I loved it here, poured my heart and soul into this place. You and Wilson were pretty damn close to family for a long time. I guess that says something, doesn't it?"

"Did you miss me?" he asked, innocently.

"Sometimes."

"Did the…pain of loss become a dull ache and eventually an occasionally uncomfortable memory?"

Looking slightly away, she cautiously gazed in his direction, confessing, "No. That's why it still hurts like it was yesterday. I feel like I should still be walking, dressed in my best, down this hall to your office to scream at you. I feel like you should still be pissing me off and then doing something that amazes me and reminds me of why you are the only choice to head your department, even though you make me crazy. I feel like you should still be showing up at my door or calling at the most inappropriate hours. And now I have none of that. Chase was right, this isn't my hospital, it isn't your department…we're just the same as anyone else coming in off the street."

"You and I could go to the lobby around nine. Walk around together. I can guarantee you, we're still relevant here."

"We're not relevant. We're…infamous. If we walked down there at nine am, they would talk because I'm the one who used to run this place and I dated my most difficult employee, and you'd be the doctor that drove into my dining room before faking your death and going back to jail. They'd forget about the fact that I made this hospital. They'd forget about the lives you saved and the accomplishments we had here professionally. The end…has overshadowed the entire rest of the story. It really pisses me off. We've become a tale…more like an urban legend."

"If you say our names three times while staring in a mirror in a darkened bathroom our spirits return..."

Cuddy chuckled, "Sort of like that."

"You were a better dean than Foreman."

"Thanks."

"It was different when we were here. Better. Now here we are, with this ugly, red sofa and degrees on the walls with names I don't even recognize."

"Still feels like he should come in," she nodded, "this will always be Wilson's office."

They both drank in the space, each lost in their own memories and allowing a surprisingly comfortable silence.

"Was it suicide?" she asked while her fingers met nervously. "You don't have to answer that, if you don't want to…but I've heard conflicting reports."

House sat up slowly, leaning back into the sofa while he considered his answer, "I don't know. I've thought it through, replayed it in my mind thousands of times, but I've never found the one piece of evidence that I need to know for certain."

"I've heard different versions of the story. I'd like to hear yours."

He glanced at her for just a moment and after few seconds of pause, he began, "A week and two days after my funeral, we got up late at some shitty little forty dollar–a-night motel. We ate breakfast…talked about our plans…about stuff Wilson wanted to do before he couldn't do it anymore. He was a little tired, a little weak, nothing horrible. We stopped at a gas station and rode for almost two hours. We were just a few minutes away from the spot where we were going to take a break, and then…he just sort of leaned, just a little. His bike drifted the way he leaned, right into a cement truck. He was still alive for a few minutes. I think his neck was broken because he didn't seem to be in much pain. It seemed like he was trying to tell me to leave before the ambulance got there but…there was too much blood and he couldn't really speak. He was…so fucked up it seemed weird that he could even talk. I went that far, I wasn't going to leave him to die alone in his own blood. The ambulance showed up a few minutes after his pulse stopped. They tried to revive him, which, given the extent of his injuries, seemed completely useless, but they tried anyway."

"But then the police came too."

"Yup. I agreed, willingly, to be transferred back. I told them who I was. They didn't just get me for violation of parole. They got me for the fake IDs and the drugs and interfering with an investigation and every little thing they could get me on. The list was…an impressive cluster of stupid little crimes. I didn't fight it-"

"Same as the first time-"

"I pled guilty to the whole thing and decided I was OK with being in prison for a long time. The outside wasn't working out for me."

"But you bargained your way out?"

They heard the sounds of janitorial staff in the hallway, getting the wing ready for the day. House stood, limping carefully over to the built-in bookshelf. "That's it for story time today, boys and girls," he announced while he removed the books from one of the lower shelves, placing them on the desk.

"What are you doing?" Cuddy questioned, stunned.

He pried the bottom up from the shelf and pulled a plastic box out from the hiding place below. He opened the box, showing Cuddy a stash of money and a few other items inside, "My safe deposit box at the First National Bank of Wilson."

He replaced the shelf and the books, and put the box next to her on the desk, leaning against the surface while he stood in front of her. He looked at her IV bag, "We'll keep the IV fluids going for the next twenty-four hours to help clear up the jaundice. Is the pain any better?"

"A little, yea. Not nearly as sharp."

"So the stent is helping?"

"Yea."

"Hungry?"

"It didn't help that much."

"Give it a few hours," House answered, knowingly, "you'll be hungry by tonight. Maybe it's just the lights in here, but you look a little less yellow already."

"It's just the lights."

Chase hurried into Wilson's old office. "You have to go. Now," he ordered, "there's a problem up in maternity so Foreman's coming in early."

"What kind of problem?" Cuddy asked immediately.

"Foreman's problem, not your problem."

Cuddy nodded with a pained expression as the three of them went to gather her remaining things. If the treatment went well, Chase suggested a removal of the stent once the issue was corrected and offered to help her get in to see the new oncologist if they discovered the problem was actually pancreatic cancer. They agreed to talk as results became available, but the biopsy would take three days. Moments later, they were getting on the elevator to leave.

She was shaky and tired, and House looked almost as bad as she did. Both were taxed physically and emotionally, and were desperately in need of food and rest. House had his cane in hand, and Cuddy was pushing an IV pole because House didn't want to stop the steroids and fluids that would hopefully help her condition.

Once on the third level of the garage, House put a hand behind Cuddy's elbow to steady her when she seemed wobbly. They both took two steps forward and found Foreman with a very unhappy, shocked and guarded look on his face. "Dean Foreman," House said with a polite nod while he directed Cuddy off of the elevator.

"What in the hell is going on here?" Foreman questioned, "and how are you out of jail?"

"They realized they had the wrong guy?" House asked more than explained.

"They had the right guy. And why are the two of you together…here…at my hospital?"

"We had sex in your office," House explained, "on your sofa and your desk…and your chair. Be careful, we didn't have time to clean up."

"We were visiting," Cuddy offered, "just wanted to see what you've done with the place."

"You don't look well," Foreman offered, "come back in, I can have someone help you with whatever's wrong. Someone who isn't House."

"I'm fine," Cuddy insisted while the pair took a few more steps to leave.

"Was Chase here this morning? This is my hospital and I should to know what's going on here. You can trust me. I can help you if you're honest. Wait, House, are you…on the run?"

Cuddy stepped toward Foreman, diplomatically, "He's not on the run. Dr. Foreman, House and I were trying to resolve our issues, put the past to bed so we can move on with our lives. It had nothing to do with Chase or your hospital. We weren't even in your office. Coming back here was something my therapist suggested. I hope you don't mind. We were here overnight so that we would disrupt things as little as possible, we didn't want to create a scene."

"Oh," Foreman seemed to understand, "why the IV?"

"I'm dying," Cuddy answered with calm acceptance, "cancer. That's why I'm trying to put the past to rest."

"I'm sorry," Foreman offered, "I didn't know."

"No one does. Good luck with the hospital," Cuddy offered with an extended hand.

After Foreman said his goodbye to Cuddy, he said to House, "If you want to come back, come see me. I don't think I can give you your department back, but I'll see what I can do about getting you a job."

House, looking significantly less cheerful, muttered, "I'm done here," before they walked to their car.

He carefully lowered Cuddy's IV pole, angling it so it would fit into the back of her thankfully roomy car, and he checked her battery powered pump to make sure everything was running properly. His intent was to get them home before the battery ran out. Ten minutes into the drive, just before Cuddy fell asleep, she looked at his face and saw the exhaustion and fatigue etched deeply into his expression. "Let's get a hotel, I'll pay. We'll sleep a few hours and then we can head home. All of my meds are with us anyway and we can plug in at the hotel."

Ready to argue that he was fine, House turned and saw the concern in her eyes and his reflection in the rear view mirror, and he agreed. She insisted on a nicer place than a roadside motel, a place with room service and layers of fluffy softness on top of each mattress. She got them a room with two double beds since he insisted on being in the same room to monitor her, even if it meant one of them would sleep in a chair. She ordered more food than they'd both eat under the best of circumstances, and House was asleep before it arrived. Cuddy took off his sneakers and folded the free end of the blanket over him before going to her own bed.

When she tried to sleep, she felt a sensation that she hadn't felt in so long, it took her a moment to identify it: she was hungry. Lifting the metal covers off of various trays, she found a few things that she knew would be good to eat. Careful not to overdo it, she made a small plate. A less pained expression covered her eyes when the taste of roasted vegetables and warm rice touched her tongue while House snored in the background.