"What do you have there?" Cuddy asked as she looked at the paper sack House was holding.

"Booze," he answered nonchalantly, and he wasn't lying. He pulled out a bottle of scotch and some plastic cups.

"Scotch? You said you wouldn't drink when you were here!"

"So sue me. You want some?"

"House--"

"Wilson isn't coming back. I think I've earned the right to get smashed tonight," House said. "I figured you'd be proud of the fact that I chose to drink myself into a coma in your home and not in a bar. See, if I was at a bar I'd have to call someone to come get me, and we all know what happened the last time I did that, don't we?"

He poured himself a cup and downed it in three gulps, then wasted no time in pouring another.

"You two need to work things out," Cuddy said as she sat in the chair. "I don't want to lose him and neither do you."

"Too late; he's made up his mind," House said, frowning into his drink. "I should respect that, right? And so should you."

"I should, but I don't."

"Neither do I, but he's still leaving."

"He's your friend. Doesn't that--"

"He was my friend. As a matter of fact he told me we were never friends to begin with. That I was the manipulator and he was the enabler. He's tired of cleaning up my messes and that's the real reason he's leaving." House's voice was flat and monotonous. He glanced over to see Cuddy's mouth agape. "But don't worry, he doesn't blame me for what happened to Amber. I guess that was to soften blow, as if he had kicked me in the nuts with a knife-tipped boot instead of taking a sledgehammer to my head and expected it to hurt less. But hey, it's the thought that counts. I'm such a lucky guy to have a friend like that. Oh wait….we were never friends." A creepy dull laugh escaped his throat. "My mistake. I'm the reason he's gone and never coming back. With friends like me who needs enemies?"

The misery on his face told her more than his words did, but she asked anyway. "Did he really say you were never friends?"

"Oh yeah. He said it right to my face and left me standing there in his empty office." Another wave of anguish rushed across his features. He was miserable, more miserable than his leg could ever make him.

"I'm sorry, House," Cuddy said quietly.

"Don't feel sorry for me."

"I'm going to anyway."

"Don't be sorry for something that isn't your fault, Cuddy," he said, his voice now had a hint of iciness to it. "That's exactly why Wilson doesn't want to be around me anymore."

"I'm sorry--"

"What did I just say?" House snapped at her, his words loud and clear and echoing through the living room. "This is not your fault and do not feel sorry for me. Save it for Cameron, or a terminal patient, or a lost kitten. Don't waste it on me."

She gave House a few moments to cool off before asking, "What do you want from me, House?"

"I don't want your pity." He sat back and resumed his strange habit of staring at the ceiling.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to sit over here with me."

Cuddy blinked, not sure if she heard him right. "What?"

"Sit over here with me. That's what I want."

"That's all?"

"For now." It was only when he sat back up and looked at her did she notice that his eyes were red. He was staring at the ceiling because he was trying to keep his emotions in check and not have a breakdown in front of her. "You'll let me sleep in the same bed but you won't sit next to me. Even Ray Charles could see how strange that is."

"Ray Charles is dead."

"And he's still blind. Sit with me, Cuddy, or am I finally asking for too much?"

"You're not."

She got up, her high heels whispering against the carpet as she walked over to the sofa and sank into the middle cushion.

"Thank you," he said, and meant it. Why he was so thankful for it was still a mystery.

"Is there anything else you want from me?"

"Not yet. I'm sure I'll think of something."

"House," she began carefully, "you do know that I'm your friend too."

"If you say so." He was staring at the ceiling again, barely keeping himself together. "How did you feel when you found out I was going to be all right after the cracked skull?"

"Relieved. Happy and relieved."

"Did you tell Wilson?"

"Yes, I called and told him."

"What did he say?"

The answer wasn't what House wanted to hear. She didn't want to be the one to break it to him. She hesitated, opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated again.

"What did he say?" House repeated.

"He didn't really say anything," Cuddy replied as if confessing a sin. "He thanked me for calling and hung up."

"I see."

"He was grieving over Amber, I'm sure--"

"Did he ever call to see how I was doing?"

"No."

"Did you ever see him visit me?"

"No, he was on leave. He wanted some space. He told me he would call if he needed anything."

"Funny, he didn't tell me that. He just told me to leave him the hell alone."

House didn't sound like he was falling apart, or broken, or in pain. He sounded like he had given up, and that somehow sounded worse to Cuddy's ears. He wasn't going to break, of course he wasn't; he was going to keep it all inside like he always did. Gregory House didn't cry, or breakdown, or allow himself feel anything like grief. If his best friend turned his back on him, that was just the way it goes. Too bad. Shit happens. Life goes on. Weeks later he would turn around and take an innocent comment the wrong way and snap at the wrong person for the wrong reasons.

She wasn't going to let him keep it all bottle up inside. Not tonight. Tonight he deserved to let his emotions run rampant. He needed to scream and cry and yell and sob, even if it killed them both. She would listen. She would cry with him. She would be the one to take whatever he threw. But she wasn't going to just sit there and let him stare at the goddamn ceiling all night while he stewed in his pent-up emotions.

Cuddy cleared her throat and said, "House, you said Wilson left you just standing in his office."

"Yeah."

"Did you say anything to him when he left?"

"No." House drained his drink and poured another one.

"Did he say anything to you?"

"No, he just kept walking down the corridor and didn't look back."

"He didn't even say goodbye?"

"No, I just told you he didn't say anything. The son of a bitch didn't say a damn thing when he walked out the door."

More anger was rising up in him. It was good thing. He needed to let his anger out. She was going to make him let it out. "How did you feel when he did that?"

"He's right, you know," House said as if he hadn't heard her.

She frowned. "Right about what?"

"I'm not a nice person to be around," House told her before pausing to take another gulp of his scotch. "Stacy's gone…now Wilson's gone. It's only a matter of time before you open your eyes and get the hell out of my life before I fuck it all up too."

"I'm not--"

"I'm the opposite of King Midas. Everything I touch turns to shit."

"Stop--"

"I should leave. You shouldn't be around me anymore. If I stay any longer I'll just end up ruining your life." House stood up and patted his pockets for his keys. "I'll go to the bar after all. Maybe I'll get creamed by a bus on the way. Wouldn't that be ironic…Wilson would throw a fucking parade--"

"House, stop it!" Cuddy broke in. "You're not going anywhere, now just sit back down."

"I'm leaving."

"No!"

She shoved him back down on the sofa, then snatched his cane right out of his hand.

He gaped at her, then snarled, "You fucking bitch."

"You better believe it," she snarled right back at him, taking a few steps back until she was out of his reach. "Answer my question. How did you feel when Wilson walked away?"

"Go fuck yourself," he said while trying to get back up.

Cuddy stepped forward and pushed him right back down again. "House," she spoke in a low, serious tone, "if you try to get up again, I'm going to hit you across your right thigh with this cane."

His blue eyes went from her to the cane and back again. "You wouldn't dare."

"You think I'm kidding? Try me."