A/N-Thank you all so much for your patience, yet again. Thanks, as always, to the last chapter's commenters: OldSFfan, jkarr, lenasti16, KiwiClare, freeasabird14, IHeartHouseCuddy, JLCH, BabalooBlue, gildedlily89, jaybe61, ikissedtheLaurie, Little Greg, Abby, HuddyGirl, dmarchl21, Suzieqlondon, HuddyFan, CaptainK8, grouchysnarky, Boo's House, CacauHousemaniaca, maya295, bladesmum, RochelleRene and guests.

-Love, Manipulation & Chemotherapy-

Detective Evans took Cuddy to one of the interrogation rooms. She couldn't help but notice that he seemed to take a particularly long route past holding cells and other incoming prisoners. The interrogation room looked much like those she'd seen in movies. There were a few metal chairs and a table, as well as a mirrored window into the room. The one thing that surprised her was how cold the room was. She crossed her arms tightly against her body to try to avoid the chill.

With a confident glare, she met the detective's eyes and waited. Evans stood over her. Not one for backing down, he blankly returned her stare for a few moments before he asked, "Anything you need before we get started? Water or—"

"Just my lawyer," she answered, although she was terribly thirsty.

"The words of a guilty woman."

"The words of a woman who knows what it feels like when someone is trying to manipulate and intimidate her."

"You knew Gregory House was alive, but didn't alert the authorities. In fact, since you were collaborating with his attorney, it seems clear that you were trying to help Dr. House. Did you give him money for lodging or food? Maybe you let him stay with you for a few days or helped to pay for that very high-priced lawyer who's trying to help him worm out of paying his debt to society."

She answered with a tone of boredom, "I'm still waiting for my lawyer."

"I have no interest in seeing a woman like you locked away in prison. But if you interfere with our investigation, I'll do whatever I need to do to ensure justice is served. Now, it's a simple question, did you…," Evans paused, sitting down in the chair across from her as he considered an idea. He smiled, eerily, and tapped the table, "I should have seen this all along. You helped him get away last time, didn't you? Did he come to you for help before or after he staged his death? Did you actually help him flee from prosecution a year ago?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I had nothing to do with that," she defended immediately, feeling her frustration pound through her entire body, and then she shook her head, denying him any further information. "I want my lawyer."

Evans attempted to coax and irritate her enough to get a reaction. He tried making wilder accusations, both about Cuddy and House, but her mind was set. Finally Sarah bustled into the room, abruptly tipping the balance of power back in Cuddy's favor, at least in Cuddy's mind. "I've been waiting at the other end of the building…in the interview rooms usually used in situations like this," Sarah apologized. Sitting down next to Cuddy, Sarah said with exaggerated solemnity, "You must be one hell of a threat to society. They're interviewing you here, in rooms they usually reserve for people suspected of very serious, violent crimes. Unless…there was some strange ulterior motive the detective could have had for trying to keep me away from my client?" Sarah looked at the detective and added, "But he wouldn't do that…"

"Administrative error," Evans answered, dismissively. "Happens all the time."

Sarah's smile emerged like a cunning sneer. "Let's cut the bullshit and get down to business."

While Cuddy was being escorted to another room to wait, she saw the ADA from their earlier meeting walking down the hall to join Sarah and the detective. The room Cuddy waited in was simply furnished. There were a few chairs and a water cooler, but little else. There was no window. She had no cell phone or computer to contact anyone or do any work. There weren't any magazines or newspapers to help pass the time. Her eyes kept drifting to the locked door, reminding her that she was trapped powerlessly in a room while other people decided her fate.

House sat in his hotel room and waited. Unlike Cuddy, he had plenty of things that could have occupied his time. He had a TV and the day's newspaper. He could have easily walked out of his room, but he was just as trapped as she was. He hadn't bothered to turn on the TV, read the newspaper or leave the room. The only spot of brightness came from the small red light on the smoke detector. He sat in the corner, his elbows braced on the arms of a rigid upholstered chair. He leaned on his fists, his chin propped against two knuckles while he focused on that tiny red light.

He had no idea how long he had been sitting there, but he didn't move until he heard a sharp knock. His feet shuffled as they carried him toward the door. It could have been Cuddy or Sarah in the hall, or maybe someone waiting to arrest him. Bracing his hands against the frame, he leaned down to the peephole and looked through. When he saw Cuddy and Sarah, he felt a wave of feelings, ranging from relief that Cuddy was not in prison to anxious worry about whatever was going to happen in the next few moments of his life.

Standing fully upright, he took a long, deep breath, his fingers moving to the bolt that secured the door. As he slid it open, he wondered if Cuddy was going to stand in the hall, refusing to come inside, and dump him in yet another doorway. As he stepped back, implicitly inviting them in, Sarah immediately came inside and started turning on lights while she glanced around the room. "Are we done trying to do things your way?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips as she glowered at Cuddy.

House's eyes tightened questioningly, "I'm pretty sure that Cuddy getting arrested was not part of doing it our way. Those were your people."

Sarah continued talking to Cuddy, "I told you it wasn't a good idea to come to the meeting. But you wouldn't take no for an answer. You were so certain that it was important for you to be there. You couldn't let me do my job."

"If you would have done your job right, there wouldn't have been anyone at that meeting who would have wanted to arrest her," he argued.

Cuddy was barely inside the room, her hands resting on the back of a chair. "I screwed up. I admit it," she stated, certainly. "I shouldn't have gone along. But now it's done and we have to deal with it…what do we do next?" she asked, tired of what House guessed was a long lecture on the way to meet him.

Sarah sighed, "I need to know if you're going to do what I tell you to do or not. I'll fill you in on what I'm planning. If you agree, then I expect you to follow through. If you're going to do whatever you want, don't waste your money or my time." She waited until both clients nodded and then said, "Greg, tomorrow morning at ten, you will surrender to the authorities down at the courthouse."

"Surrender?" Cuddy asked, the word carrying implications greater than House physically turning himself in to the police. House's face was completely blank as he listened.

"The judge rejected the terms of our first deal," Sarah said as she watched Cuddy's eyes close slowly and House's shoulders slump with disappointment. "Judge Whitman, have you heard of him? They call him Judge Restitution in the media. He likes to hand down sentences that he feels fit the crimes, but rather than having people wear signs or somehow publicly declare their wrongdoings, he likes to have them make restitution to the parties who were harmed. The ADA has political aspirations and has been trying to cut prison costs, rehabilitate criminals rather than watch them cycle in and out of the system. I thought we hit the jackpot with that ADA-judge combination, and usually, if the ADA signs off on a deal, the judge is pretty much a rubber stamp, but Whitman turned it down immediately. We're going to meet with him in chambers at three tomorrow afternoon."

"What was the deal?" House asked with interested concern.

"Three years of service to the prison medical community, on rotation throughout the state correctional system. Twelve months of it housed in a minimum security facility where you could have proper accommodations for your disability. If you could behave, you'd be released on parole or house arrest while you fulfill the remaining two years of service."

"Three years of clinic duty for inmates?" he asked. He shook his head, staring at the popcorn ceiling while he wondered if he could actually conform to the state's idea of 'good behavior' for three years.

Sarah walked swiftly, taking a spot in front of him like an immovable wall, "Let me ask you then…what did you expect? You committed crimes. Serious crimes. And you ran. What did you think was going to happen? Do you have any idea the strings I had to pull, the work that I've done, to get you that? I can't just pull a neat little sleight of hand and make this all go away!"

"It's not that we're ungrateful," Cuddy said as she approached. "It's all a lot to digest and this has been very stressful. Did the judge give you any indication of why he rejected the deal?"

"He said that, while he believed inmates deserve adequate medical care, they shouldn't be entitled to better medical care than the average citizen. In the plea deal, we highlighted your medical skills. Perhaps I over-highlighted."

"So Whitman's not against the idea of House using his abilities to compensate for his crimes?" Cuddy asked, hopefully.

Sarah shrugged, "I don't know. I've learned not to make assumptions about what he's thinking. He may want to make adjustments to housing or terms…I just don't know. He wants to see you though, Greg. Once you're in there, someone is going to arrest you. I think it's best to turn yourself in beforehand as a sign of your sincerity and your willingness to cooperate. They're already expecting you. You'll be held at the courthouse until our meeting."

After a quick planning session, Sarah told them she would meet them in the morning with the things they needed. House was surprised that Cuddy had stayed after Sarah had left. Once they were alone, he could see how overwhelmed Cuddy was. She didn't speak at first, stretching a little while she absorbed the shock from the day. He finally asked, "How pissed are you?"

"I'm pretty pissed," she answered immediately. "That detective is one gigantic asshole." She kicked off her shoes and loosened her clothing a bit while she tried to unwind. "I'm sorry," she blurted. "I shouldn't have gone. I thought I could help. I made it worse. Now they're gonna force your hand."

"I'm tired of waiting anyway," he answered, completely confused that she wasn't blaming him.

"You know the most fucked up thing? I was held for about six hours. A little less. After about three, I completely understood why you'd want to run," she laughed with bitter surprise.

"The first few days were the worst. You get used to it."

"You do? Really?" she asked, her tired, red eyes searching for an answer as she sat on the edge of the bed.

He took a spot next to her. "Sort of. I think you have to disconnect. You have to accept it a little or you'll go crazy."

"It must be so hard not to run away. You've gotta be considering it."

"I want to," he said, sincerely. "But I won't. Let's rip off this band-aid and get it over with. Tomorrow night, we'll have some answers."

She turned to him, and her fingers traced the wrinkles in his forehead, weathered with worry, sun and age. As her palm moved to the side of his face and he didn't resist her touch, she remembered with sad fondness the number of times she'd wanted to offer some comfort to him. Her mind traveled back to the day she'd brought him on at PPTH. With naïve enthusiasm, she had hired him with a less pained vision of his everyday life in her mind's eye. Part of her thought that if she gave him a good job, one suited to his obviously under-used mind, that he'd be happier.

There they were, on the very doorstep of change in a place built on a foundation of pain and tears, anger and passion, acknowledging silently their love that seemed to grow even in the rocky, arid spot it had been given. In spite of a mountain of evidence against them, they were compelled to harbor hope even as they distrusted the very concept of hope at all.

Trying to read her thoughts, he mumbled, "It must be infuriating to be in love with someone who doesn't fit you at all."

As his words weaved through her brain, she lifted her focus to his eyes, shaking her head. They couldn't say those words again. Neither of them even knew if 'I love you' meant anything anymore. The admission seemed insufficient to the moment, but she understood too well the confirmation he was seeking. "You are infuriating," she said, her eyes soft, "but so am I. And you do fit me." He slowly released a little of his worry, the string of tension loosening only slightly, but enough to let her know that he understood. She faintly whispered, "Even if it's only a year, it's gonna be so—"

"No," he immediately interrupted, his thumb pressing against her lips to stop the words. Before she could argue or continue, he kissed her, his mouth covering hers before he could move his thumb out of the way. If he was going to avoid falling apart in front of her, there were certain things that couldn't be said. The sex and contact was comforting, but it wasn't enough to dispel the worries of reality. It was impossible to forget about what the morning would bring. There were a million reasons why it could have been the last night they ever spent together. Savoring each touch only made it feel like more of a goodbye, but neither of them were willing to sacrifice one more chance to be together.

The sliver of space between the blinds seemed remarkably dim even once the clock told them the sun should be shining. House separated the curtains and looked outside, sighing at the dreary morning. If he'd hoped for one more brilliant sunrise, he would have been disappointed. "The things you miss when you're in prison," he said to the window. "Eating breakfast at eleven. Not that reconstituted, heated-up egg powder, but actual breakfast. Being able to pick up a phone, look outside, walk to your car and go somewhere. Having a drink whenever you feel like it. I'm not even talking about alcohol, I mean a fucking cup of coffee. Taking a shower without having to worry about someone beating the fuck out of you, or worse. The music…I missed the music. You start to accept it. You start to accept that you'll be told when to do everything you do, that everyone around you will cut you open for a chance to get something they want. Once in a while you wake up, and for a second you think you have some choice in what will happen that day. Or you get a sudden urge for something that you used to just…have." He turned around, leaning his back against the window before he said, "I don't blame you if you want to get on with your life. The only thing I ask-"

"I'm not going to do that."

"The only thing I ask," he continued, undeterred, "is that you send me something so I know that it's over. A postcard that says 'bye' is plenty. Or 'fuck off' or whatever you want to say. I don't want to get out, ready to see you, and find you with someone else. I'm not asking for love or for you to wait for me or any other unrealistic shit like that. I just want you to tell me when to stop hoping."

"You should expect more from me," she said with exasperation.

"But all that I'm asking for is that. Will you do that? Let me know if it's done and I should stop waiting for it…for you. Because I can sit there and I can think about you and focus on the life I want to have some day, but I need to know if what I'm focusing on is real or some fucking mirage."

The pain in his voice was almost unbearable to her. She answered, "I still think sometimes I'll be able to blink or wake up. This doesn't seem like it should be our life. We had the chance for a life that was completely different. I kept thinking that while I waited in that interrogation room. This is our chance to fix it. We're going to go in there tomorrow, and we're going to do the right thing. We're going to earn our lives back. You won't get that goodbye postcard. I want all of this, the pain, the wounds, the work we've done with Michael…to mean something. You may not need me to love you, but I do."

He swallowed roughly, his throat so tight that the act of swallowing was difficult. "I didn't say I didn't need you to love me. I said I wasn't asking you to."

"You don't have to ask for it."

"Neither do you," he said with a timid smile as he heard the static-filled sound of the clock radio, alerting them it was time to get up.

The next two hours were a blur as they showered and dressed in the courtroom-appropriate attire Sarah brought when she had joined them. Winding through the garage at the courthouse to find a parking spot seemed to take forever. House was glad he'd chosen not to eat because he definitely felt like he could vomit when they finally got out of the car. Inside the courthouse, House quickly kissed Cuddy's cheek and said, "Time to get our lives back." Cuddy nodded, tears welling in her eyes because they were welling in his as a police officer took the back of House's arm and led him away.

Sarah looked at Cuddy, "Be here at two. I'll have someone bring you to the judge's chambers while we figure out Greg's plea deal. Since everyone will be there, I want to make sure no charges have been or will be filed against you."

"Where are you going?" Cuddy asked, nervously.

"I'm going to hang around to make sure everyone keeps their end of the bargain. Given the administrative errors from last night, I don't want to turn my back and find out Greg's already been moved to State." Sarah started to follow House down the hall, but she came back when she saw Cuddy's anxiousness. "You need to trust me," Sarah said. "I know you're used to doing things your way. But this is my world. I can't promise you that the outcome will be perfect...in fact, I can promise you it won't be perfect. But I'm really good at my job. I'm going to get him the best possible deal I can. I won't let him rot in prison. I'm relatively confident that he'll be home in under two years."

Cuddy nodded, trying to take comfort in Sarah's words. "Thanks," Cuddy said, shaking Sarah's hand and smiling. "You better hurry. He's probably already pissing someone off."

Once she was alone, Cuddy walked to the bathroom, went to the last stall, and leaned against the wall, where she finally let down her guard. She allowed the worry and uncertainty, the sheer powerlessness that she felt, to bubble to the surface. She saw something drawn in thick black marker on the wall. The phrase "Love Conquers All," bound by handcuffs. Cuddy actually laughed through her sadness at the quixotic ridiculousness of it all, taking a picture of it and texting it to Wilson.

He called back, "Are you…sending me pictures from a bathroom?"

"Do people really believe that shit?" she chuckled.

"You sound like House."

"Maybe I'm seeing his side of this. You can't tell me that love conquers all. There are too many examples of times when it doesn't."

"Well…'all' may be a bit much."

"Love doesn't cure cancer. Chemo can, sometimes surgery or radiation. But not love."

"I don't know," Wilson said hesitantly. "In a way it was part of it for me. Assuming, of course, that the present course of treatment continues to work."

"Treatment…not love."

"But I only started treatment because of the deal you and House made with your mother. See, your mother, in her very messed up way, loved you enough to know that you had to sort things out with House. So she used the fact that you and House both love me to manipulate us all. So Arlene loved you, you guys loved me, I loved you both enough to try the treatment I didn't want. So in some ways, love did help to cure cancer."

"Love, Mom's manipulation and good chemotherapy conquer all?" she skeptically asked. "Love didn't stop House from relapsing, and it didn't stop me from shutting him out and pushing him away."

"I would argue that you weren't acting out of love. You were both acting out of fear and pain, even anger. Probably, in some ways…fear of love."

"It won't be enough to stop him from going to jail and it won't protect him once he's in there."

"The phrase isn't 'Love will get you exactly what you want, exactly when you want it,' Cuddy. It's not a wish-granting genie," Wilson answered. "Conquer means to defeat…overcome. It won't stop him from going to jail, but hopefully, if he goes, it will help him to get through it so jail doesn't defeat him. Hopefully it will help you to deal with it. I've seen plenty of people who've died of cancer who were surrounded by the people who loved them, people who would have done anything for a cure. It can't stop something terrible from happening. But it can help the survivors to get through and even thrive. So the adage should be: 'Love, your mother's manipulation and chemotherapy, along with patience, can help you to avoid being defeated by your circumstances.'"

Cuddy smiled at Wilson's joke as she traced the letters on the wall and then said, "Or maybe…love needs a team of doctors and lawyers to write a patient information sheet."

"Yes," Wilson said, enthusiastically. "Love needs a patient information sheet with a list of potential interactions, side effects and limitations."

Mimicking pharmaceutical commercials, she said, "Love may help in the conquering of some moderate, non-life-threatening problems when used properly, and under the guidance of a licensed physician. Misuse of this product may result in misery, imprisonment, worsening of symptoms, or even death."

"Exactly!" Wilson chuckled.

"Thanks, Wilson," she replied before she hung up.

As Cuddy washed her hands and prepared herself to face whatever was going to happen in the next few hours, she felt a bit stronger for having allowed a private moment of weakness. So she took a seat on a bench in the corridor of the courthouse and answered emails on her phone. In a few short hours, they'd finally be in front of the judge. And Cuddy was ready. She hoped House was.