I woke up feeling like shit. Nah, I stand corrected. Shit feels better than this.

My face and head felt like someone had beat it with a sack of potatoes. It hurt to move, hurt to think, which is something I haven't been doing a lot of lately. My temples throbbed in time with the beeping of the heart rate monitor, causing me to wince, which just caused even more aching. What the hell had I done?

So I lay there, for a while, trying to gauge my injuries. My nose felt stuffy and swollen; it hurt to breath. Broken nose, my brain registered. I tried to open my eyes, but only one was cooperating. Facial fracture. My head hurt all over.

I tested my memory. I was Gregory House, 50 years old. I had spent a good chunk of the last year living with my bestest friend, James Wilson. We'd bought a loft on Meridian St in Princeton, NJ, the city I'd lived and worked in for the last decade and a half.

Okay, the basic facts were still in tact. Now, for the fun part. What the hell happened last night.

I closed my left eye, since it seemed to be the only one that was working, and I thought about what had happened.

I remembered showing up to work Monday, hung over. I hoped that it was still yesterday, and I hadn't lost any more time than a few hours. I remembered confronting Cuddy on the roof over her leaving. My chest felt heavy and tightened up. I swallowed, finding a hard lump in my throat. I remembered drinking in the office, and then leaving with Wilson. After that, it got a little fuzzy. Then a lot fuzzy. Then, nada, until I woke up I here, just a few minutes ago.

Great, short term memory is in tact. I tried not to dwell too much on what I remembered from there.

I started testing my limbs for paralysis. I flexed my toes, and my leg muscles. I flexed my fingers, and I felt something odd in my right hand. I slowly turned my head to the side, wincing with the motion. I bit my lip at what I saw.

Cuddy was sitting in one of the uncomfortable chairs in the room, asleep. Her dark hair was pulled back in a long, silky tail, but her bangs fell in disarray over her eyes, which were closed. The chair was pushed as close to the bed as possible. Her head had drooped and was resting on her shoulder. Her chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm.

She looked so beautiful.

My eye flickered down, and I realized that the pressure I was feeling in my hand was her hand. Her arm was stretched out in front of her, but in that limp bonelessness one only gets in sleep.

When did she get here?

I laid there for a long time, watching her sleep. She seemed so...peaceful. So at ease. More so than I'd ever seen her awake. Her hand was a welcome weight, a reassurance that someone was here.

That someone cared.

I licked my dry lips, desperately wishing I had some water, but I didn't want to move. I didn't want to disturb her. So I just watched her.

A while later, she stirred, stretching slightly in the chair. She had to have been uncomfortable, but she never pulled her hand back. She yawned, and she opened those stormy eyes, and they locked with mine.

I could see myself reflected in those wide, gray orbs, red-rimmed with sleep. I looked like hell, and I felt like hell. I licked my lips again, took a deep breath. "I screwed up, didn't I." My voice sounded weak to me.

She furrowed her brow, unsure of what to say. I could see her indecisiveness. She absently stroked my palm, her touch leaving burning a path into my hand. Finally, she sighed. "Why are you doing this to yourself?" she asked, softly.

I wanted to jerk my hand away. I didn't want that flame hot touch on my flesh anymore, but I didn't have the strength to pull it back. I was tired, so tired. "Because, this is what I do?" I whispered, unable to make my dry voice work. She started to get up to get me some water, but I gripped her hand, silently pleading her to stay.

"But, why?" she asked, frustrated. She sat back down in the chair. "House, I don't want to keep doing this," she whispered, harshly.

"Then don't!" I willed my voice to sound. "Then don't do this. Run away with your perfect family, and forget about me!"

"I can't," she cried, balling her hands into fists. "I can't leave you. I try, but I can't escape the way I feel about you. I'll keep coming back, no matter how far away I am! God help me, but I love you!"

I was stunned. The words slipped out of her mouth in a fit of frustration, but they were true. I stared at her in shocked silence. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't.

She stood up, staring at me. "I'm sorry, House." she told me. She turned around and left me trying to wrap my mind around what she had admitted. Trying to comprehend what she had said.

I love you. The words chase themselves around in my head, slowly penetrating my bruised and battered brain.

She loved me. Loved me! And what had I ever done to her? Give her nothing but grief and suffering and insults.

I laid in bed, wondering what I had ever done to deserve that. I didn't come up with anything, and the pain became too much. My eye fluttered, and sleep overtook me, my bruised brain still trying to figure out what it all meant.